


The Color of Magic

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7, The Master (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Crossover with 'The Master' (TV), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ninjas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 84,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Sheila Paulson</p><p>The Master and Max are summoned to an alternate dimension where magic is real, in answer to an ancient prophecy. The characters they encounter in their quest should prove familiar to B7 fans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Color of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).
> 
> **Original Author's Notes:**
> 
> Previously published in 'The Color of Magic' ed. Janet Walker.

The town was so remote it wasn't even on the map, just a little place tucked away at the edge of nowhere with a crossroads, two houses and a bar. It was the bar that Max noticed as they approached at the end of the day just as the light was fading, the neon letters springing out against the darkening sky as if the sign had been turned on just for them. Afterwards, Max said that should have warned him, but it didn't. The flat, bare reaches of western Kansas are not the sort of place to inspire belief in fantasy.

Max himself was a practical young man in his mid-twenties, and although he had begun to learn that many things in life were not as they seemed, he was not quite the type to leap to grandiose flights of fancy. Since he had met John Peter McAllister, ninja master, and begun to learn the ways of ninjutsu, he had discovered that life held many mysteries, and he was slowly opening up to strange new experiences. McAllister was a balding sixty-year-old whom Max had offered to help out of a tough situation when they had first met. But that was before he realized that he was the one who needed the Master's own brand of help. McAllister was a veteran of two wars and thirty years of ninja training. He had left his sect behind when he discovered that some of his students, led by Okasa, once his prize pupil and now a ninja master in his own right, had reverted to the old ways of ninjutsu, practicing terrorism and assassination. Now Okasa pursued him, intending his death, and McAllister eluded him as he traveled America with Max, teaching him the skills he had learned from his own master in Japan while the two of them searched for Teri, the daughter McAllister hadn't known he had. So far they hadn't found her, but they would one day. Max planned to enjoy every moment till then, and he'd come close enough to the Master by now to understand that finding Teri wouldn't end their friendship. For the moment, he was willing to take things as they came.

This time, though, he couldn't have guessed what was about to happen.

"The Cavern!" The lights flashed on and off like a signal, and the weathered boards that made an old fashioned porch seemed to go with the lanterns that hung around the edges of the roof below the one bright sign. "Suppose we can get some sandwiches here?" Max asked McAllister. Later on, he realized that he had felt a compulsion to stop, but right now it simply seemed chance that had brought them here.

The older man nodded. "But we'll be where we're going in another twenty miles. Why not wait?"

"Because I'm hot and tired and dry, and I could do with a cold beer and some food," explained Max as he pulled up in front of the tavern. "We'll just grab a sandwich and something to drink and be on our way. There's no hurry, is there?"

The Master smiled at his eager pupil. "No, I suppose not." He climbed out of the van as Max retrieved his pet hamster Henry from his cage mounted on the dashboard and stowed him in his pocket. "Just try to avoid trouble in there," the ninja cautioned as they headed for the door. "I know you and bars."

Max threw him a look of mock hurt. "And I thought I was doing so much better," he protested. McAllister laughed companionably. "So you are. But I don't want you to press your luck."

"Gee, thanks." Max pushed the weathered door open and led the way inside.

The interior was mostly one big room, the kitchen almost entirely visible through an open hatch behind the bar. The place was rustic, and Max half expected to find a collection of good ol' boys in cowboy hats standing at the bar drinking whiskey from shot glasses and listening to Willie Nelson on the jukebox, but instead the place was almost deserted. Max remembered he'd only seen one other car outside, a 1953 Chevy, plus a motorbike propped up against the side of the porch. The customers inside didn't seem to reflect either vehicle properly. There was a young man at the bar wearing a white home-spun shirt with billowing sleeves that flowed out from below the shoulders, and tight jeans tucked into suede boots that looked hand made. A metal loop belt hung low on one hip with a dagger in a metal sheath attached to it. He looked like a refugee from a Society for Creative Anachronism event or an attendee at a science fiction convention, and his long curly hair was pulled back in a pony tail like a leftover hippie's. He was too young for that though, a few years younger than Max, although something in the arrogance of his rather too good looking face gave him an air of being older than his years, at least at first glance. Max decided the motorbike must be his.

At one of the tables on the far side of the room sat a man in his late thirties or early forties. He had a profile like a Roman coin, and the look he threw down the length of his elegant nose was little better than a sneer. He wore a black shirt of unusual cut and there was a silver pendant on a chain around his neck. Put him in a suit and he'd pass for a convincing businessman, but the black silk shirt gave the appearance of a mildly dissolute hedonist, although the coldness in eyes that appeared black in the dim light and the fringe of bangs that almost reached his eyebrows made him harder to place. For a minute Max wondered if he was gay, but dismissed the thought immediately. Whoever he was, he was all male.

Then Max got a look at the waitress and promptly lost interest in both men. She was at least as tall as he was, and for the first moment, Max could only stare. A blonde Valkyrie of a woman, she should have been Aryan-fair, but instead her complexion was as dark as a surfer's who has haunted the beach year round in a warm climate. Something about the way her eyes tilted gave her a foreign look, but she didn't seem Oriental. Max couldn't place her, and that bothered him.

She gave him a warm smile that made him forget his questions and drew him to the bar as if she had issued a worded invitation. Aware of McAllister's silent amusement behind him, Max plowed forward. He wasn't the type of young man to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The young man shifted aside to give Max and the Master room, and Max glanced sideways at McAllister to find him surveying the place with a narrowed and thoughtful eye as if he were trying to place it. Then the Valkyrie said, "Welcome," in a voice that was warm and rich and soothing all at once. There was a note of accent in it, almost too slight to be perceived, and Max wondered if the bar were run by an immigrant family from one of the eastern bloc nations and that was why they seemed unusual.

"Hi," he said cheerfully, discounting it as not important. "Any chance of some sandwiches and a beer?"

"Of course. For both of you?"

At her question, McAllister made an abortive movement beside him, and Max threw him a questioning look, but the Master wore one of his inscrutable looks, and Max decided to let it go. Everything they said in this place would be heard by the other three, and Max didn't want that. Better to keep the conversation normal.

"That's right. Roast beef?" Max asked, picking up the menu that was stuck in a holder behind the napkin container and passing it to the Master. When the waitress nodded, Max ordered a beer to go with it. McAllister glanced at the menu, ordered a club sandwich and a coke. A cook appeared at the hatch and pulled the order slips from a wheel, vanishing again before Max could add him to the collection of oddities. He was a nondescript little man with a pointy face, although there was enough of a twinkle in his eyes to make him stand out, too.

The sandwiches were ready almost immediately. Max noticed that neither the dark haired snob or the curly haired man were eating before the young man reached past him for a napkin and jogged his elbow roughly. Max's beer cascaded over his sandwich.

Hastily swallowing the one bite he'd been allowed, Max turned angrily. "What do you think you're trying to do?" he demanded in outrage.

McAllister caught his arm. "It was an accident, Max," he insisted.

"It's not my fault you are so clumsy," the young man said in an arrogant and surly voice. "It wasn't crowded before you came in."

Suddenly understanding what McAllister had known from the beginning, that the young man wanted to pick a fight, his realization was proven when the youth went for his knife, pulling it smoothly from the sheath. It was a type of dagger Max had never seen before, with an elaborately tooled hilt and a thin, well-worn blade, obviously frequently used. The young man fell into a crouch. "Well, come on," he urged. "Show me what you're worth."

"Easy, youngster," McAllister cautioned. "You don't want a fight."

The young man spared him one poignant look that said all too clearly, 'Don't I just?' then he lunged at Max with the knife.

If Max hadn't been studying with a ninja master for two years, he would have been skewered, but his training stood him in good stead, allowing him to skip lightly out of range, grabbing for his opponent's wrist. But the young man was light on his feet too, and he moved like a pro--no, he moved with the grace and agility of someone who did this naturally, both for survival and for enjoyment. His eyes danced, showing he was having fun, and he suddenly looked much younger than he had before. Max wondered unkindly as the blade missed his ribcage by a fraction of an inch if he were an escapee from a mental home.

The man at the corner table had risen, but he made no move to come closer. He was about Max's height and maybe twenty-five pounds heavier, but the one glimpse Max had of him showed that he was not a fighter. His hands were too well manicured, and when Max swung around to make sure he wasn't coming up behind him, he saw a fastidious curl to the man's lip.

He also glimpsed McAllister trying to circle around behind his adversary, and he called, "Stay out of this, old fella. I can handle him."

"You must let him," the waitress put in. "This is not your fight."

"If Max is in danger, this makes it my fight," McAllister told her. Max knew the Master wouldn't hesitate to intervene if he thought Max was getting in over his head.

But Max could handle it. He sparred with the man a little, finding his measure, and although he was trained differently than Max, he was very damn good. He wasn't a street punk; he had none of their deadly, economical and savage drive. Instead he fought elegantly, but no less dangerously, and behind the lazy curl to his mouth and the bright glitter in his eyes was a man who could kill without hesitation if he had to. Not a hit man, not a murderer, not a martial artist, not a terrorist. Max couldn't place him.

But he could beat him. If he couldn't, McAllister would already have intervened. Since the Master was standing back watching as if this was just another test he'd set for Max, it seemed that he _could_ win, if he could just figure out how to disarm the other man. As they struggled for possession of the knife and for the chain that Max had taken from his belt, Max could sense a precision in his opponent's movements that spoke of long hours of training. Whatever he was, he was good at it. Although he'd deliberately picked the fight, it was becoming clear that spilling Max's drink had been nothing but an excuse for this bout, because he no longer looked either angry or surly, and if his blue eyes glittered, it was with happiness rather than malice.

Suddenly Max felt Henry struggling in his pocket and he remembered his hamster for the first time. Realizing that he must be more careful or he'd hurt his pet, he altered his stance to protect him.

It was a mistake. Suddenly off balance, Max could only retreat when his opponent lunged at him, smiling happily with a mouthful of perfect white teeth. Max jumped back and felt the window behind him. The glass shattered as he fell, and his last thought before he crashed through and landed flat on his back outside was that the Master would never let him live it down.

  


 

*****

 

  


McAllister observed the fight between Max and the young man with growing interest. recognizing early on that Max's opponent had no real intention of hurting Max but was fighting him for another reason entirely, a reason he was not yet prepared to explain. Whatever it was, he was enjoying himself and so was Max. McAllister was certain that there was more going on here than met the eye. and that if the fight progressed to a draw or a victory for Max, explanations might be forthcoming.

The dark-haired man in the corner had not spoken, simply standing there watching, but not as if he found the fight particularly interesting. The waitress made no attempt to break it up either, and the cook emerged through a door at the end of the bar and watched too. Of all of them, he was the only one who looked worried, but maybe it was his bar and he didn't want the place broken up.

Of course Max would fight at the drop of a hat, but usually he had a better reason for continuing a fight than he had this time. Something prevented McAllister from interfering, although he couldn't say whether it was his own curiosity, the expectant look on the face of the tanned Viking woman, the exultant way the curly haired man fought, or something else that he didn't understand. McAllister joined the woman. "Shouldn't you call the police?" he suggested.

"No. We don't need the police. Arran is no killer."

"Max didn't start it."

"Max didn't need to." She smiled a little, but it didn't take very well, and McAllister could see a grim and desperate worry in the back of her eyes.

"Max won't hurt Arran either," he felt compelled to reassure her.

"We must know how Max fights," she confided surprisingly. "You are his teacher."

"Yes," he admitted although she had not meant it as a question. For the first time he wondered if his old nemesis Okasa had something to do with this mad fight. It was too bizarre to mean nothing beyond two quick-tempered young men blowing off steam, not with a weapon like that knife. That was a real weapon, worn naturally as most men wear a watch or a tie.

When Max hunched around stiffly, McAllister thought for a moment that he'd been cut, and his heart leapt. Even as he started forward, he remembered Henry and realized that Max had turned to protect him. Then Max reeled backward and McAllister winced, grinning wryly as his pupil crashed through yet another bar window. He should have known it would come to this.

When Max didn't reappear, McAllister feared he'd hurt himself as he landed, and he started for the door to investigate. Behind him, the dark man finally roused himself enough to speak. "No!" he shouted. "Wait! Not that way."

But McAllister was too concerned for Max to heed him. He stepped out into darkness; night had fallen while they were inside, and the neon lights reflected off the side of the van, blinking on and off, on and off. A breeze had risen and the day's heat was beginning to dissipate. McAllister rounded the corner and came up to the window. It was darker here in the shadow of the building, and he couldn't see Max lying on the ground. He must have got up and gone around the other way. McAllister saw a square of light from the window and glanced up as he passed it, then froze, his blood going cold. The window was unbroken.

But it was the only window on the entire wall. Max had come through it, there could be no doubt of that. It would have been impossible to repair the window in the time it had taken him to come outside and walk around the building, and even if they could have done it at lightning speed, they could not have done it silently.

McAllister looked into the building and saw the others gathered there staring at him, their faces wearing various expressions. The dark man looked disgruntled as if he was fed up with the whole thing. The woman was worried, the cook even more so. But the young man with long hair only looked excited. He stepped forward and opened the window, leaning out. "Won't you come in, Master?" he prompted. pointing toward the door. "Max is waiting for you."

It was a trap. It couldn't be anything else. McAllister didn't think he'd been drugged, but it was possible that someone had dropped a mickey or some acid in his soda and he was hallucinating or dreaming. He reached inside himself to find his chi, the center of his being, and tried to calm himself, although he was far from calm. He didn't understand what was happening, and although he was wise enough to understand that many things in this world lacked simple explanations, he suspected there was far more to this perplexing mystery than met the eye. Wherever Max was, he was _someplace_ , and Arran and his friends obviously intended McAllister to join him. But there were ways to vanish that McAllister understood all too well, ninja ways. A man could be knocked out without realizing it. They could have done that to him, it could be a half hour later, the window could have been repaired, his watch altered. Max could have been smuggled away.

They knew who he was; Arran had called him Master. It was almost as if he and Max were expected, somehow guided and manipulated here. Max had seemed awfully determined to stop here when they could easily have waited to reach their destination. There had to be a purpose to all of this, and McAllister was determined to discover what it was and rescue Max in the process. Max was too hotheaded to be plunged into something so offbeat without getting into even more trouble.

McAllister heaved a sigh and returned to the bar.

Once inside, he stopped dead. Although Arran had opened the window and it stood ajar, the glass was obviously broken. It _was_ broken. But for some reason, the fractured glass didn't show from the outside. A hologram? An optical illusion? Hypnosis?

"The window is really broken, Master," said the dark-haired man with a cold and cynical note to his voice. "Surely your experience tells you that things are not always what they seem." He sounded bored with his explanation. "I had hoped you at least would accept this with an open mind."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," retorted McAllister, "but I tend to take Max's disappearance as a threat. And I don't like threats."

"And yet, _that_ sounds remarkably like one." Arran's voice held a teasing and amused note. "I think there's nothing for it, Dare. We'll have to show him. Besides, we don't have a lot of time."

"Not all of us are as impatient as you. You've been enjoying yourself. Surely a little too gaudy."

"But effective," said Arran brightly. "Max is there already, and soon his teacher will join him. Then nothing can stop what must be."

"I rather think Serralla will have something to say about it," Dare reminded him. "She doesn't believe in the prophecy. Max would be no match for her."

"Where _is_ Max?" McAllister kept his voice mild with an effort.

The blonde woman tossed her hair. "He's in the Protectorate," she explained, which didn't exactly help. "Serralla won't be there."

"Won't she?" Dare glared at her. "You're a cheery little optimist, aren't you? Instead of standing here talking about it, suppose we send McAllister after Max?"

"And when I find him?" McAllister asked. "Since you're implying he's...somewhere else."

"Then you shall have to make your choices. When all is completed, you will be returned."

"Here?"

"Back through the window," Arran said with a grin. "It might not be 'here' precisely, but it will surely be 'here' if you define 'here' as the United States, planet Earth, 1986. It might even be this location, but that depends on how long it takes you and Max to finish what you must do."

"When I go through the window, I'll enter another world?" McAllister asked, feeling slightly foolish for asking, but unable to see any reasonable alternative to Arran's words. "I don't suppose you'll tell us what our options are?"

"That's not allowed this side of the gate," Dare replied. "And even if it were, Raban wouldn't permit it. He'll want to tell you most of it himself. He's a fool!" The sudden venom in his voice was not entirely free of some milder and warmer emotion, and McAllister turned toward him sharply. He hadn't been drawn to Dare until now, although Arran's cheeky good cheer was only slightly more bearable.

"Who is Raban?" he asked.

"Raban is Lord of the Protectorate," Dare told him. "And that is all you need to know so far. Serralla is Empress of the West." His lip curled. "Or so she would prefer to be called."

It would be pointless to ask for further information now. For all McAllister knew, this whole thing was a dream. But Max was gone and the window was both broken and unbroken, and the only way to find Max was to follow him through the broken side. "Will you come too?" he asked.

"We'll be there, although not with you at first," Arran replied. "But I'd fight at Max's side against a whole tribe of mur-wolves." There was admiration in his voice. "You taught him well. Different than my father's Guards taught me, but good. He might even be able to stand against Brin."

"Enough chatter," Dare cut in. "You have supplies in your van." He pronounced the word 'van' as if it were alien to him. "You may take your own weapons with you. You'll certainly need them."

"Will I?" McAllister realized that if he were to play this game, he would have to play it to the hilt, so he turned without a word and went to the van, where he dressed in his ninja robes minus the hood. He armed himself thoroughly, packed some weapons for Max, brought his young friend's jacket in case the Protectorate had a colder climate than Kansas, and returned to the bar. The blond woman handed him a knapsack of an unfamiliar design. "Food and water for your journey," she explained. "And this." She passed him an amulet like the silver one Dare wore. "This will draw you to Dare and Arran and them to you, if you need each other," she informed him. "It is tuned to you." Unexpectedly, she caught his hand and raised it to her lips. "Go carefully, Defender."

"Defender?" He lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"Sentimental twaddle," Dare declared cynically.

"So you say." Arran flung him a truculent look. "If you don't believe in the legend, why are you here?"

"Do you imagine Raban gave me a choice?"

"Raban gives you every choice there is," Arran half shouted. "I don't know why he puts up with you. I don't know why _I_ do."

"I don't believe you do," Dare responded in a deadly quiet voice. "Raban gives _no_ choice."

"We know." The cook spoke for the first time, skeptical and amused. "We know."

"You know nothing." The words were dismissive, but the cook only grinned. He turned to McAllister. "If I interpret the prophecy correctly, you shouldn't see much of me in the Protectorate once it all begins," he explained. "But if Max needs me, I'll be there."

"Complaining all the way," snapped Dare. McAllister wondered fleetingly if they were brothers; they sparred like siblings.

Arran made a flamboyant gesture toward the window. "And now, Master, it's time for you to follow Max."

Dare smiled sourly. "Will you step into my parlor?" he quoted sotto voce.

The cook threw him a puzzled glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're supposed to have a brain, even though I doubt it," Dare observed. "Figure it out yourself, Chel."

McAllister smiled a little and stepped to the window. For a moment, he saw only the Kansas night, the glow from the window tracing a faint rectangle on the dusty ground, then it became superimposed over a warm and glowing night with moonlight almost as bright as day, casting stark shadows against unfamiliar trees. He didn't see Max, but he saw a place he hadn't seen outside. The window actually opened onto a different world. It seemed implausible if not impossible, but too elaborate to be a hoax. Maybe he would awaken and find it all a dream, but as long as he was awake, he must go after Max.

He climbed through the window. When he turned, he stood in a silent glen, and there was no trace of a building where the bar had been only a moment before. Max was nowhere in sight.

  


 

*****

 

  


When Max crashed through the window, he couldn't help thinking of what McAllister would say to him about it. Max was trying to avoid leaving bars this way, and had been doing much better lately, but this was a definite setback. He landed hard, knocking the breath out of him, and he lay there struggling to breathe for a second or two, then, when air finally began to return to his laboring lungs, he checked himself for injuries. When he was satisfied that he had done nothing more than collect a few new bruises, he struggled up, prepared to return to the fray. This time, he would demand an explanation, find out what the fight was really about. Distanced from it, he was determined to think rationally as the Master would. Whatever this fight was for, it sure as hell wasn't because Arran or whatever his name was had felt the bar was too crowded.

To his astonishment, there was suddenly a stand of trees right where he'd expected the bar to be. Puzzled, he blinked a few times, half expecting his vision to clear, but when the view remained unchanged, he spun around to survey the rest of his surroundings. There were trees on three sides of the glen, but on the fourth, they opened out to reveal a distant valley. In the bright moonlight, he could see a jagged and terrible mountain range beyond the valley, its serrated peaks stark against the sky. Frowning, still not getting it, Max muttered, "What the hell--" and lifted his eyes to the sky.

Stars, brighter than he had ever seen, hung above him, and try as he might, he could find nothing familiar in any of them. No Big Dipper, No North Star. The moon was full, the only thing still recognizable. This was crazy.

Drawing Henry from his pocket, he clutched his hamster, the one familiar thing in this entire mess, and stroked his back. "Somehow, Henry, I don't think we're in Kansas any more," he muttered with an uneasy chuckle.

Henry refrained from comment, but the little animal was shaking and jittery, and Max couldn't tell why. He stowed Henry in the safety of his pocket again, just as he heard something behind him that resembled a low growl.

Spinning to face the new threat, Max saw nothing at first, then as the sound was repeated, he spied two glowing lights just within the trees. Eyes? Eyes that glowed red in the starlight. Wolves?

Max backed away only to realize there was nothing in this glade to put at his back. He didn't want to get any closer to the trees than he needed to. On the side of the clearing where the trees opened up, he saw a standing stone a little taller than a man and maybe twice as broad. If he could put his back against that, it would be easier to fend off the beast.

Carefully he began to ease in that direction. The eyes didn't move right away, and he was close to the stone before they shifted at all, pacing him just within the shadow of the forest but never coming out of cover.

As Max approached the standing stone, he saw another beyond it and a third past that, then a whole series of them marching down into the valley. It wasn't bright enough in this alien night to make out any details on the valley floor, but he did see lights there, possibly campfires. If he could reach them, he might be safe. On the other hand, he could wake up at any minute and find himself back in Kansas with the Master bending over him.

But only if he was really unconscious. There was too much detail to this dream. The strange stars were bright overhead even in the moonlight. The air was heady with the scent of pine trees, the grass was damp with dew beneath his feet and he could feel the moisture beginning to soak through his pant legs. The eyes gleamed at him and as Max edged along, never quite ready to turn his back on them and run, he could hear the snap of twigs and the rustle of brush as if something bigger than a wolf was pacing him. Determined to awaken from this bizarre experience, he pinched himself hard. It hurt.

"Where are you?" he muttered to the absent McAllister. "And where the hell am I?"

By then he had reached the first standing stone. It didn't bear much resemblance to the stones of Stonehenge, which he'd seen once when his family had taken a trip to England the summer before his senior year in high school, being smaller and far more irregular, but there had been a circle of smaller stones, Avebury, he thought it was called, that looked more like this. He suspected that, in daylight, these stones would be solid black.

The distant fires on the valley floor seemed to offer a better chance of protection than the stones did, so he continued to descend carefully, judging the distance between the stones and moving cautiously, not quite daring to break into a run. He was sure if he did the beast would be upon him instantly.

It paced him all the way down to the valley floor as Max grew more and more confused. What the hell was happening to him? Where was he and how did he get here? All he knew was that if he ever got back, nothing in the world would get him through another bar window as long as he lived.

He was still a hundred yards away from the safety of the campfires when the creature suddenly burst out of the trees and came for his throat.

Max had prepared himself. He wasn't as well armed as he would have liked, and he'd dropped the chain when he fell through the window, but he had a shuriken and a knife. Bracing himself, he threw the shuriken first, and the huge hairy creature jerked when the throwing star struck and hesitated, making a weird mewling cry that alerted the people around the campfire. Shouts came from there, but Max didn't think rescue could reach him in time. Shifting his grip on the knife, he set his feet firmly on the ground and waited. The creature charged him, favoring one paw. Max doubted that was enough to turn the odds in his favor.

The creature was not a wolf. As it sprang at him, he could see that quite clearly. It was much the same general shape, but tusks curled out on either side of his muzzle, and its ears were set flat against its head. Shaggy and grey like a wolf, it looked like no creature Max had ever seen, as if someone had taken a wolf and grafted alien parts onto it before turning it loose.

It was at least as big as a large wolf and it struck with enough force to fling him flat on his back. As he fell, he struck with the knife, desperation lending him strength. The blade slid into the creature's chest just behind the foreleg, scraped bone, twisting his hand with the force of the creature's spring, and Max cried out as pain flashed through his wrist. Ignoring it as best he could, he dragged the knife free and struck again, jerking up his other arm to shield his face. He felt teeth penetrating his shirt sleeve, and he blurted an involuntary cry of pain. The creature shuddered at the knife's penetration, but it continued to savage his arm.

When the attack stopped, Max didn't realize it immediately. He pulled the knife loose to strike again, but the creature went limp and collapsed on top of him, its fetid breath searing across his face for an instant before a long sigh shuddered out of the creature. Struggling wildly to free himself, Max tried to wiggle out from under it, shivering away from the touch of the thing.

Then he became aware of the shouting. Torchlight gave him a distorted view of the savage muzzle inches from his face, the eyes glittering for a moment, then going dull as life left the beast. A second later, it was rolled off his body and a huge man with sword in his hand looked down at Max and smiled benignly.

"By the power, that was a good fight!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. Passing the sword to a second man clad in an identical tunic--a uniform maybe--he stretched out a hand to Max and deposited him on his feet, bracing him for a second when Max's knees would have buckled. "Arm looks nasty, but we'll have you fighting fit in no time. Welcome. I don't recognize your livery, but anyone who fights a mur-wolf like that is one of us."

"Mur-wolf?" Max echoed dazedly. "Whatever it was, it was big."

One of the others in the background, a woman, exclaimed and held up Max's shuriken. The big man's eyes widened as if he'd seen something miraculous, and he plucked it from her hand, staring at it as if it was his hope of heaven. "A wheel?" he asked. "A wheeled weapon? What is it called?"

"A shuriken," Max explained helplessly. His wrist throbbed and his arm hurt fiercely where the teeth had savaged him.

His big rescuer turned his eyes from the shuriken reluctantly, saw Max sway a little and caught him up in his arms as easily as he would a child. "Well, come on," he urged his fellows. "Back to the fire. We've longer to wait for the Prince, but we've got a hero to tend."

"Hero?" Max echoed muzzily.

"That you are, my lad," his new friend assured him. "Anyone who can take a mur-wolf with a knife is a hero, and we've been waiting for your shuriken for years, we have." He grinned. "I'm Dagan, and this is my Guard troop. Let's get you bandaged and fed, and then it will be time for exchanging stories. Your name--you are perhaps the Acolyte?"

"I'm Max Keller," Max replied.

Dagan appeared satisfied with that. "I don't suppose you've seen the Prince this night?" he asked, depositing Max before the nearest fire and calling for water and ale.

"I don't know the prince," Max admitted apologetically.

"You came from the Sacred Grove," one of the others mentioned hesitantly.

"You mean up there?" Max gestured unwarily and winced at the motion.

"He crossed the Gate." Dagan's voice put an end to the discussion as he began the decidedly unpleasant task of cleaning Max's wound. Max grimaced as he pulled the sleeve away from the injury, and made himself look at it, relieved to find it wasn't as bad as he'd expected, at least not until Dagan ruthlessly upended the contents of an earthenware flask over it. With a screech that might have roused the dead, Max sat bolt upright, only to relax as he felt Henry scrambling frantically in his pocket. Dagan's hand clasped his shoulder apologetically. "Sorry, lad," he murmured. "Had to be done. A mur-wolf's bite can go septic if we don't care for it right away. I know it hurts. Better to have it hurt clean."

Max decided he preferred his own world's antibiotics, but he didn't say so. Instead he reached into his pocket to free Henry, settling him in the curve of his arm. His right wrist was starting to feel better; it had only been wrenched rather than sprained.

"What manner of beastie is that?" ventured one of the other soldiers.

"He's a hamster."

"Food?"

"A pet," Max replied, bristling at the thought of someone dining on Henry.

"Not enough meat on it to make it worth carrying for food," Dagan pointed out placatingly. "It's different across the Gate, Rad."

"How do you know, Sarge?" Rad asked. "You've never been there."

"The Prince told me."

It was apparent that the Prince, whoever he was, had been in Max's world, and Max wondered if he was one of the two men in the bar. Making a choice, he asked, "His name isn't Arran, is it?"

"So you did see him," Dagan said, relaxing. "What was he doing?"

"Seeing how I could fight."

"So he sent you here." Dagan grinned. "From the way you took the mur-wolf, he was right about you."

Max winced as Dagan poured something else on his wound, but this time it only stung a little. Max glanced down at his arm and saw that whatever it was was fizzing like peroxide. Maybe it _was_ peroxide. At least it would clean the wound.

He was sleepy and drained from the fight, only dimly aware of one of the soldiers, a tall, lean woman who looked like she could take a mur-wolf with her bare hands, coming forward and offering his knife, thoroughly cleaned and rid of the mur-wolf's blood. "Your weapon, Sir Max," she muttered respectfully, and Max had to fight back giggles at the title. He decided he must be delirious. None of this could be real.

As Dagan fastened a rough but efficient bandage around his wound, another trooper brought him a blanket, and the next thing Max knew, he was lying before the fire, half asleep, sipping excellent ale from a jug. "When the Prince comes," Dagan told him, "he'll answer your questions."

"I'm glad somebody will," Max returned. I've got enough of them."

  


 

*****

 

  


McAllister stood and examined the glade for a long time, seeking traces of Max before he went to the place where the trees drew apart and surveyed the valley. The standing stones led down to distant campfires, and it was likely that Max would have gone there. Surely the fires would be friendly--although he had no reason to assume as much. Serralla sounded devious from what Dare had--and had not--said, and it would be like her to be waiting here to capture a chance met stranger. If Dare and Arran were the good guys and Serralla the villain of the piece, she would try to counter the two men's moves with some of her own. If Dare was right and this was Protectorate territory, it could be that Serralla could not come here. The Empress might not want to risk herself so far inside enemy territory. That didn't mean she couldn't send her minions to do her dirty work, and McAllister had only his impressions of Arran and Dare to go on, to determine if they were honorable or not. Although he had not immediately warmed to them, he did not feel any real deception in them. If they had manipulated him and Max for their own purposes--and he knew now that they had somehow compelled them to stop at the bar--he sensed desperation rather than motives of gain behind their machinations. They were fighting for their lives, desperate enough to use whatever tools came to hand. There had been something about a prophecy too, or a legend, and if Serralla didn't believe in it, she couldn't entirely discount it either. So the Master would have to be very careful. He did not fear for himself, although this was outside his realm of experience. He knew what he was capable of. But Max had less exposure to situations that were outside his perceptions, and he might disbelieve in this enough to fall into unnecessary danger. McAllister had to find Max right away. He set off down the hillside toward the distant campfires, hoping that Max was there and safe.

Halfway down the hill, he knew himself to be pursued.

He halted abruptly, blending into the shadow of one of the stones, becoming still, invisible, a phantom. Not even the sound of his heartbeat would give him away. Regulating his breathing, he waited, tensed and poised for danger. The presence was closer. He could feel it, but at the same time, he sensed that it was not there, as if someone were watching him from a great distance.

 _Very good. Very good indeed_. The voice was not for his ears but for his mind and his instincts. _So you are my enemy_.

Even though he could not really hear it, he knew that the mind touch was female. "Serralla?" He spoke aloud, certain that if it were she, she could hear him in return, and did, for he felt a ripple of amused respect.

 _I should have known. Dare cheated. He always does. But no matter. I will vanquish you with or without your awareness. l am the dark sorceress. You are the one who turned from the dark. You exist within it, but you are no longer of it. How much pleasure it will give me to break down your fragile protective shell and loose the evil within you again_.

"The old ways are gone." said McAllister levelly.

 _Not here, Defender_ , she all but chortled. _Not here_.

Contact broke then as if she had reached the limits of her endurance: mind talking must require great reserves of energy, McAllister decided. So Serralla was the enemy after all, even if Dare cheated by speaking of her in the other world. She knew him, knew he had turned from the old way of ninjutsu. She meant to turn him back again, and McAllister suspected that if she succeeded, it would be a victory for her and a defeat for Raban and the Protectorate. But McAllister did not intend to be turned. He didn't understand how these people knew of him, and that didn't really matter now. What did was that he get to Max right away. Max was his one vulnerability, and if Serralla discovered that, Max would be in great danger. He was probably already in danger.

McAllister stepped from his hiding place that had been no hiding place and hurried down into valley. As he neared the campfires, he hesitated, unwilling to burst into the middle of an armed camp, even though he could have done it without being detected. These people were at war, and they would not take kindly to strangers. He hoped they hadn't taken exception to Max's presence and killed him out of hand, but the camp seemed relatively calm.

Before he reached the camp, he came upon the body of a wolf--at least he thought it was a wolf until he got a better look at it. Cautiously he circled the carcass, noting the tusks, the set of the ears, the powerful body, the alien musculature. The facts of its difference from his own world analog brought it home to him even more forcefully than Serralla's communication had that he was no longer in his own familiar world.

"You there!" The voice came from behind him. "Identify yourself!"

He turned toward the campfires again and saw several armed men and women carrying swords or maces or axes, braced and ready to fight him if need be. He spread his hands to show that he held no weapons and said mildly, "Arran sent me."

A murmur ran through the soldiers at that, and abruptly a huge man five or six inches taller than the Master pushed through them and stood ready. He carried only a staff, but McAllister knew that staff could be a deadly weapon in the right hands. Although the new man looked a gentle giant, his jaw was set in a determined line.

"He's from the Prince, Sarge," the youngest man cried. "He's the one, he must be."

"You were expecting me?" McAllister asked mildly. "Is Max here?"

That sent a buzz of excitement through the line of troops, but the sergeant didn't waste time exclaiming. "My name's Dagan," he introduced himself. "Max is here. Come."

The line parted to let him through and he followed Dagan to the nearest campfire, where Max lay sleeping, one arm bandaged. Dagan put out an abrupt hand and stayed the Master when he would have bent to investigate his young friend's injury. "Hold. He killed the mur-wolf you were looking at back there. His wounds are not serious, but he needs to rest. The morning will be time enough for reunions." He caught McAllister's arm, which prompted a whole series of gasps from his troops and led McAllister to the next fire, where a spit braced over the flames contained the body of a much smaller animal that looked like a rabbit. Dagan lifted the spit from the fire and passed it to McAllister. "Are you hungry, man?"

"I could use a bite," McAllister agreed, and introduced himself. Seeing no utensils, he took out a knife and hacked off a piece of meat, then, returning the spit to Dagan, he sat before the fire, propping his pack beside him, and began to eat. A dozen of the soldiers bunched around, watching him eat as if they had never seen anyone have a meal before. McAllister looked around the circle, recognizing this band for a warrior troop; curious and excited though they were, they did not relax, and guards were dispatched automatically to patrol the perimeter of the camp. They were a tough lot, hard and wary, hands never very far from the swords they wore, but when they looked at him, a superstitious hope filled their eyes. McAllister had never considered himself the salvation of an entire people, and he was uncomfortable with the idea, although he had enough savoire faire to sit at ease among the soldiers.

Dagan sliced himself some meat and returned the spit before hunkering down beside the Master and taking a bite. A man brought a flask and Dagan drank from it before passing it to McAllister. He half expected it to be alcohol, which he didn't touch, but it wasn't; it was some kind of hearty fruit drink with a taste somewhere between apples and pears and it was refreshing. Dagan dragged the back of his sleeve across his mouth and grinned. "Grenberry juice. We had some ale, but I poured it on Max's wound; you can't be too careful with mur-wolf bites." Sensing McAllister's arrested movement, he laughed comfortably. "He'll be fine. A little feverish in the morning, maybe, but he'll do. A handy fighter, that lad, with plenty of spunk. Did the Prince pick a fight with him to test his mettle?"

"Prince?" McAllister asked.

"Prince Arran. He went to your world to fetch you back. Knowing the lad, he would have enjoyed a good fight, and I would guess Max'd give him one."

"You're right on both counts," McAllister returned with a smile. He liked this man. Although Dagan was hardly a cosmopolitan type, he was calmly accepting of two strangers from another world, more down to earth than his awed troops, obviously in control. Yet beneath his military position, he could unbend and enjoy the experience. He was concerned enough for a stranger to take good care of Max and to go out of his way to reassure McAllister. Dagan had a good heart.

Dagan laughed. "Suppose you tell us about it," he suggested. "I've had the training of Arran since he was a wee lad. He's good, better than his teacher. I'm a mite clumsy for delicate work. But Arran isn't. As fine a swordsman I've seen, unless it's the Minister himself."

"The Minister?"

"Our Lord Protector, Raban, is Arran's father," Dagan explained easily. "His First Minister, Lord Dare, a dark man that some folks say has no heart, stands as godfather and protector to Arran, no easy task."

"I can see why," McAllister said, grinning. "Arran doesn't look like he'd be easily broken to bridle. I know how that is from experience with Max. A hot tempered lad--both of them are. And it wasn't swords. He had a dagger."

"He learned his knife fighting from Dare. Dare can kill without hesitation--but an honorable man for all that. Our Lord Protector values him." Dagan passed the flask again. "So tell us about the fight."

McAllister made a good story of it, and the soldiers who weren't on patrol or guard duty gathered around to listen. Tales around the campfire must be the local equivalent of television, thought McAllister with a smile, doing his best with the tale. The locals took Max's toss through the window as a victory for their Prince and celebrated it with cheers and hoots and catcalls until Dagan called them to order, reminding them of the injured man in their midst. McAllister knew Max could sleep through anything short of the third world war and he didn't try to restrain them. He did get up and go over to look at Max though, sitting beside him and putting a hand on his forehead to test for fever.

Max was a little too hot, but when Dagan joined him holding a different flask and offered to change the dressing, McAllister opted to do it himself. Peeling away Dagan's bandages, he caught his breath at the sight of the wound, caused by the mur-wolf's teeth, but he thought it looked worse than it really was, the damage superficial, and Dagan had cleaned it very thoroughly. McAllister called for his pack and cleaned it once more with supplies from his first aid kit, which drew a few of the men to watch him with superstitious awe as if they suspected him of wizardry.

Max muttered a protest as the alcohol stung his wound and struggled back to consciousness through the layers of sleep. "That hurts," he muttered fretfully, then he opened his eyes and awareness filtered into them. "I see you made it," he told the Master with a grin.

"You know me." McAllister clapped him on the shoulder. "I spend half my time following you into trouble."

"This is some trouble," agreed Max. "Where are we anyway? I thought I was unconscious or delirious, but I keep waking up and I'm still here. This is nuts."

"We're in a place called the Protectorate," McAllister explained. "It's another world or another dimension. I'm not sure why we're here yet, but it has something to do with a woman called Serralla." Her name drew a series of mutters and curses from the circle around the fire. "Although I don't know all the details yet. Lie still," McAllister added, once again swabbing the wound. "I should have known you'd be fighting wolves before I could get here to stop you."

"Listen, I would have _loved_ to let you stop me," Max pointed out, roused to defend himself. "I didn't exactly _ask_ to come here, you know."

"No, but knowing you, you couldn't resist crashing through that bar window."

Max propped himself up on his good elbow. "I think you've finally convinced me. No more bar windows. So when do we go home?"

"When we've done what we came here to do." McAllister explained. "Your opponent in the bar is a prince here, and from what I can gather, he's one of the good guys."

"Oh great," Max muttered. "I can't wait to meet the opposition. We should have turned west at North Platte."

"Oh, I don't know, Max. This could be quite an experience."

"Oh yeah? Are we having fun yet?"

McAllister chuckled. ''I'll let you know," he promised as he put the finishing touches on a new bandage. "Why don't you go back to sleep. I'll explain everything in the morning."

''I'll hold you to that, old fella," Max promised sleepily, but he closed his eyes anyway.

McAllister said, "Wait a minute," and arranged his pack to make a pillow.

Max settled against it, finding the most comfortable position then roused a little. "You better take Henry. I don't want to roll on him in the night."

McAllister fetched the hamster from Max's pocket and arranged a makeshift cage for him before he went to sleep too. They were safe for the moment, but he didn't know what the morning would bring, and he wanted his rest. Stretching out beside Max, he closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.

  


 

*****

 

  


In the morning, Dare and Arran arrived, accompanied by Chel, who, out of the cook's clothes, looked a different man. Although he tried to maintain an unobtrusive appearance, there was a bright gleam of intelligence in his eyes, and the green tunic he wore had a look of affluence about it. He and Dare were bickering amiably when McAllister roused from sleep, while Arran strode about the camp, barking orders. He sounded unbearably arrogant, but McAllister realized that the squad, although quick to obey, didn't seem intimidated and even regarded him with some fondness. They probably remembered him as a child and didn't care that he tested his wings among them.

Dare sat back calmly, his face revealing nothing as he watched Arran bustle about urging the men to break camp. When McAllister splashed water on his face and went to join him, he turned a calculating eye in his direction and announced, "We will talk today."

"I think that's a good idea," McAllister agreed. He wasn't quite ready to mention Serralla's contact, suspecting that it was best to leave it for now. Instead he asked, "Where are we going today?"

"To Abarant, Raban's capital. You must meet with him as soon as possible. Although we're well within Protectorate territory, we could be attacked, either by more mur-wolves or by one of Serralla's mercenary bands. We won't get Imperial troops this far from their lines, at least not yet, but Serralla sometimes hires Techtan mercenaries and they fight anywhere. They also move quickly and quietly. They're good fighters and, once bought, they're loyal." His mouth curled a little. "Raban won't hire them."

"My father's right," Arran said, coming up behind Lord Dare. "And you know it. Protectorate troops are good enough for us."

"I hope you feel that way when your father's head adorns a stake outside Crag Castle," Dare muttered with a deprecating gesture. Arran flashed him a hot look, but he must be used to Dare, for he didn't react as McAllister had half expected, but controlled his anger, biting his lip.

Instead he turned to McAllister. "I hear that Max killed a mur-wolf with a knife last night," he said eagerly. "That must have been a good fight. How is he today?"

"I've been letting him sleep till the last minute," McAllister said. "I'm going to wake him now. Come along if you like." Here in this new world, Arran's tunic and sword looked natural, although the blue jeans he'd obviously acquired in the USA seemed out of place. He'd tucked the pants legs into suede boots, obviously worn and comfortable, and, now he was home, he'd donned a silver amulet like the one McAllister had been given and the one Dare wore.

"Take over, Dare," Arran said carelessly over his shoulder, and McAllister saw the dark man stiffen, although he didn't comment, rising to obey the Prince's command without a word. Arran looked after him. "Dare doesn't approve of me," he told the Master cheerfully. "He thinks me frivolous and untested, and he's largely right, although I can be serious when I must. I know how bad things are. Dare's been there ever since I was a boy, and I used to worship him. Now--I don't know. He's my father's closest friend and I know he'd die for him--but he can be damned unpleasant."

"Maybe he has reason," McAllister suggested mildly.

"More than you know. I'll tell you about it sometime."

They reached Max then and found him sitting up, tentatively examining his arm. Arran went forward eagerly. "So, Max. They say you gave the mur-wolf a good fight. I wish I'd seen it. Mur-wolves are hard to kill. Not one man in ten could kill one with a knife, and I've seen men with better weapons fall to them. How's the arm?"

Max threw him a suspicious glance, catching McAllister's eye. The Master nodded and Max relaxed. "I'll live. You didn't tell me I was going to have to fight _wolves_. That's the last time I let myself get thrown through a bar window."

Arran grinned engagingly. "I don't seem to remember actually _throwing_ you," he pointed out.

Max grimaced. "I was hoping nobody had noticed that. Getting thrown out is bad enough. Falling--well, that's a lot harder to live with."

"Practice," McAllister told him. "You'll get it right one of these days, Max."

"Sure, here. Doesn't look like there are any windows to get thrown through."

"We can find you a few," Arran cut in. "Glass is precious here, but my father has a few glazed windows back at Abarant. You'll need to keep away from them, Max."

"Then you keep away from me with knives," Max insisted. He stood up cautiously as if expecting to be dizzy, then a grin broke through and he strutted around with a macho expression on his face that matched anything Arran could have produced. "I'm feeling pretty good," he bragged. "What happens now?"

"I'm not sure this is the right place to tell you," demurred the Prince. "Dare should tell it or my father; both of them would be better at giving you the whole picture than I am. But to put it simply, you're here in answer to an ancient prophecy. We've known of your world for hundreds of years and we've sent observers through. We're not allowed to borrow from you, and to be honest, we want none of your technology here until we're ready for it. Although I rather liked the motor bike I learned to ride while we were waiting for you."

"You just took a chance that somebody would show up who'd match your prophecy?" Max asked with heavy skepticism. "Come on, I don't buy that. You had to know who we are. I don't like that. I bet you found out about the Master's daughter and left a false trail to lead us right past that bar. I'm right, aren't I?"

"We were desperate," Arran replied. "We had no choice."

"I bet. Why should we help you after that? Playing around with the Master's feelings..." He shot a resentful glare at Arran, and the Master heaved a sigh, disappointed that their clues were not leading them to Teri after all. But he decided not to pass judgment yet. Arran really did look uncomfortable about his tactics.

"I don't like being spied on or manipulated," Max went on hotly.

"I don't like doing it." Arran sounded convincing. "But the time matched the prophecy, and our need is desperate. We had to do it. If all goes well, you'll be returned safely to your own world when this is all over."

"Sure--or we'll be killed."

"Not by us," Arran defended himself. "You lead dangerous lives in your own world and reports indicate you like taking risks as much as I do, Max. When Dare heard about you, he was disgusted. He said it sounded like he'd have two Arrans to cope with instead of only one."

"Heaven help us," muttered McAllister under his breath. "Not that."

Max, who hadn't quite heard, shot him a suspicious look as if he'd got the gist of it without much trouble.

Before he could comment, McAllister turned to Arran. "Your time of crisis called for someone like Max and me?" he asked with interest.

"That's right." Dare had come up behind them unremarked, although McAllister had been subliminally aware of him, and he turned easily to face the First Minister. "When we realized more than a year ago that the time of crisis was upon us and that the Defender and his acolyte were to come from your world rather than our own, we contacted our observers and instructed them to start searching for someone who matched the prophecy." He had a cynical cast to his face as if he couldn't believe he'd gone along with such a plan. Skepticism seemed to be Dare's middle name, but he had not resisted the scheme, although he didn't appear to believe in it. "You and Max fit it best. One of our observers talked to someone who had seen the two of you in action, and the observer was excited enough to send for me. When I heard about you, I agreed it was worth trying."

"Of course you did," Arran muttered. "It took my father and the council to persuade you that it was worth the effort to track them down, and you only went because my father ordered it. Now that it looks like Max and McAllister fill the prophecy, you want the credit for it."

"I am quite satisfied to let you take full credit, my Prince," Dare told him, casting him an exasperated look. "Or Raban himself. He has quite a knack of getting involved with people who will lead him into trouble. The treaty with Vallon comes to mind."

"My father _wanted_ that treaty," Arran shot back. "The more kingdoms and nations that fall to Serralla, the harder it will be for the rest of us to resist her empire."

"You've left your concern a bit late," said Dare. "The West grows stronger with each passing day. More and more land is absorbed into Serralla's power base. She's across the Stone Mountains now and moving steadily East. I do not see how two men, two outlanders, skilled fighters or no, can make a difference. We will be defeated like all the rest, and Serralla's rule will cover the land."

"Then run away and hide someplace beyond the Barrier Mountains, Dare, since you obviously don't have the stomach for a fight."

"Well now, my Prince, I could never do that." Dare's voice was a sneer. "Your father would find me and drag me back."

"My father would never stop you if you wanted to run." Arran caught his rapidly building temper with a considerable effort. "He loves you. And I think if it came down to the moment, you wouldn't leave him either."

"Believe what you wish, my Prince," came Dare's cold reply. "But remember although we are in Protectorate lands now, we are not safe this far from the castle. I suggest we break camp and return to Abarant before many minutes pass."

  


 

*****

 

  


Max was disgusted to learn that he was expected to ride to Abarant Castle in one of the wagons instead of on horseback, but Dagan decided it would be easier on his arm, and Max had to admit his wound was not yet healed. There was a dull ache in it that sharpened when he moved too quickly, and when the caravan started for the castle and he realized how fast the horses could go, he knew that Dagan had been right. Still, he felt like he was being patronized or treated like a child while the 'adults' had a chance to prove their mettle. Dare settled upon a black horse that had beautiful lines and pranced about spiritedly until Dare brought him to hand. The Prince rode a roan, and he swung into the saddle, a strangely shaped device that looked eastern and exotic to Max's untrained eyes, grinning as his mount danced energetically. He looked like he had been riding since he could walk. McAllister mounted easily. Max should have known. He looked completely at ease on horseback as if he had years of riding experience.

One of the guards, a woman named Vesper, drove Max's wagon, and the team had spirit too; once they were started southeast toward Abarant, all the horses went faster than any horses Max had ever seen. It was yet another difference between home and here, one more thing to convince him that this was really happening.

"You all right?" Vesper asked him. She looked about his own age, but he didn't think he would have mistaken her for an 'Earthwoman.' She had the same exotic look around her eyes that the blonde woman back at the bar had, although her hair was a copper shade that shone in the pale yellow sunshine. She wore a cloak lined with grey fur over her uniform, and Max didn't doubt she could use the sword buckled at her side. Her hands were sturdy and capable on the reins, but when she turned and smiled at him, she was no less female than the girls he'd known back home.

"They say you are the Acolyte," she offered in a voice loud enough to be heard over the pounding hooves of her team.

"What's an acolyte?" Max asked. "I thought it was an altar boy or something."

It was her turn to look blank. "I don't know what that is. But our prophecy says that two will come in our time of greatest need, the Defender and his Acolyte. Your friend is the Defender, he who has turned from the darkness to the light. Only someone who has done such can defeat the Sorceress."

"Sorceress?" Max asked dubiously. It sounded like something out of a fairy tale. He'd read a few sword and sorcery books, but he'd never expected to find himself living in one of them. He found himself wishing he'd got around to learning how to play Dungeons and Dragons. "But the Master doesn't have those kind of powers," he objected. "Just his ninja skills."

"Ninja?" She shook her head before he could reply. "No, you must tell no secrets of your world. I shouldn't learn too much because you'll go back there after and I never will, and Raban has forbidden us to know too much about your world."

That made sense. It sounded like things were going badly here, so badly that Raban had to send for outside help. Max wondered if that made him and McAllister mercenaries. But if it was that bad, people might want to escape it--by passing through the gate into his world. Probably not a great idea. They had enough trouble here; they were bound to find his world more than they had bargained for. "Right," he said. "What am I supposed to do here? Fight dragons?"

She threw him a wide eyed gaze he suspected was largely put on. "You have _dragons_ in your world, Max?"

"Nah," he denied hastily. "I just thought maybe _you_ did."

"We have enough trouble here without that, too."

"So tell me about it."

During the high speed race for the castle, Vesper filled him in a little on the background of this land, not only the Protectorate but the world itself from the eastern Barrier mountains to the Western ocean, from Erly and Kalivera past the Stone Mountains, across the plains nations of Iothana, Lahana, Rotha and Wen, where nomadic tribesmen roved seeking game and warring with each other at the drop of a hat, to the nations that bordered the twin river systems of Amozary and Mazilla, to the Barrier range beyond which no one had explored, but where it was said wild tribesmen dwelled. For centuries the world, Lorrania, had been a series of small kingdoms, dukedoms, and nations whose leaders amused themselves with minor wars. Allegiances changed all the time, and each ruler maintained a standing army because one never knew if the duke who fought on your side in the last battle might change his allegiance and fight against you in the next one. But aside from the Incoming, an annual meeting held at Crag Castle in the West, on the coast of the Western Ocean, there was nothing resembling a centralized government. Until recently Crag Castle had been the capital of the duchy of Erly, and the duke had been one of the most powerful rulers in the land. But the duke had died mysteriously four years ago, and in his place had risen his daughter Serralla, who was a magician without peer. Some said she had killed her father with a spell, some that she had poisoned him, and others swore she had hired assassins to put an end to his life. Whichever it was, once the duke was dead, Serralla took control of the army and began a series of battles that caused one kingdom after another to fall, to be swallowed up within her growing empire. In the old days, wars were small and private things, but as more nations were absorbed, their troops were absorbed too, and trained to be a part of her rapidly growing army. Even without the magic, if something wasn't done soon, Serralla's army would be too large to defeat, and Raban, who was determined to halt her, was hampered by the fact that the various kingdoms of Lorrania had never been united before, and the rulers were suspicious of each other. Raban was working to unite them against the growing tyranny of the Western empire, but each kingdom was determined to protect itself first. Although Raban had tried to lay the groundwork for a united army to meet Serralla's force, he had not yet been able to overcome the traditional suspicion that existed between the various factions.

A shaky alliance was beginning to form in the overwhelming evidence of Serralla's purpose, but it was a fragile one, and the slightest misstep might cause it to topple. Raban had wanted to come here himself, but he had the representatives of twenty different kingdoms and principalities ensconced at Abarant where he had assigned himself the task of playing peacemaker. Max got the idea that Raban was slightly more foresighted than his fellows, that he was a driven man, and that he had sent his son and his First Minister here because diplomacy was not their strong suit. Dare was coolly outspoken and Arran was like Max in that fighting was often his first solution to a problem. It was easy for Max to look at Arran and decided that fighting was not always the wisest way to cope, but it was harder for him to recognize it for himself, and he began to feel a sneaking kinship with the Prince.

The real problem was not Serralla's military strategy at all, although she was a skilled battle commander, but rather her magical talents. She was powerful enough to turn men's minds around; she could address a captured army and they would find themselves following her. She could send her thoughts across great distances and influence leaders who had not yet met her in battle. She could make a charging army believe it was about to race off a cliff or into a wall of fire.

"She has no scruples at all," Vesper went on in tones of outrage. "Always before, when wars were fought, there were _rules_." She sounded betrayed. "Serralla doesn't believe in rules. She doesn't believe in anything but herself. The only thing that matters is her. Even Dare, who acts like he cares for no one but himself--" Her voice dropped and she looked around uneasily, heaving a sigh of relief when she realized that no one had been within earshot when she spoke. "Even Dare really does have honor. He doesn't like it spoken, but he'd die for the Protector. They're like brothers, even more than Chel, who is Dare's real brother. He's Raban's liege man. He'd follow him into fire if he had to." She grinned suddenly as Max grimaced. "No one expects you to _like_ Dare, at least not right away," she said. "But we will expect you to respect him."

"Whatever you say," Max muttered easily. "Okay. I can see you've got a problem from a military point of view, and McAllister can probably help you there. He's been in two wars. I was too young to really fight in our last one. But we're not wizards or magicians. I don't see how the Master can take on this Serralla. He can't fight spells." But Max wondered. There was the Master's inner strength, his _chi_. Maybe he could focus that to resist spells somehow. Maybe the spells didn't work on people from another dimension, although Max had scant hope of that.

"Serralla was foretold," Vesper reminded Max. "And so were you and...the Master. The only one who can resist Serralla is someone who has been in the darkness and has found his way back to the light. From what I've heard of your Master, he once belonged to an evil sect of killers, but he renounced them and turned his back on their evil."

"He was never evil," Max objected, wondering if he was being naive. He knew the Master had killed for hire. The first time Max had seen the Master overcome Okasa, the Master had responded to Okasa's taunt to kill his enemy as he had always done by claiming that he would never do so again. He had walked away from Okasa without killing him, and only a fool could take that to mean that McAllister had led a life of pure contemplation and discipline without ever killing an enemy. Some of that had to have been for survival, but Max knew it was more than that. Maybe McAllister had done more than renounce his students who had turned to the old ways. They had been more gung ho than the Master could tolerate, but he had to know where they were coming from. McAllister had once confessed to Max that he had gone after a fellow ninja who had tried to leave the sect, and it had taken Max time to work that out and stop feeling like he had been betrayed. He had finally realized that such a feeling was childish, and that it was what the Master was now that mattered, not what he had once been. The fact that he could be what he was now with that kind of background was all the more impressive than if he had always been on the side of the light, and Max began to see what Vesper meant.

"But surely there are other people who've been on the other side and then come back," he objected. "There must be people like that here."

"There are people like that everywhere," Vesper agreed. "At least I hope so. But they don't have the gifts the Master does. The prophecy says he can become invisible and walk through walls, and that he can make all kinds of unlikely weapons do his bidding, weapons we don't understand. The wheel you threw at the mur-wolf, for instance. The prophecies say that he commands wheels of death. Nobody knew what that meant until the word came from your world; someone had seen him fight. They saw him fling smoke and vanish into it. They saw him jump higher than most people and disguise himself to be unrecognizable. He can disarm enemies from a distance and fight a group of men and overcome them single handed. And the prophecy mentions a student who fights at his side. So he fulfills more of the prophecy than anyone has done before. They said he crossed the water to leave his past behind, as the prophecy foretells, and that he is on a quest that he cannot abandon."

"Looking for his daughter," Max explained.

"An honorable search," Vesper commented. "Max, can you do these things too, become invisible, things like that?"

"Some of them but not as well as he does. I can fight, though. Give me a weapon and I can fight, even if I can't see where my enemies are."

"In the darkness?" she asked sharply.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because it might be necessary. There's a labyrinth beneath Crag Castle, and it's pitch black. It's full of pitfalls and there are vicious creatures there, and illusions. Someone who can fight in the dark might be able to get into the castle that way. Can the Master penetrate such areas?"

"Well, he's got into high security areas before," Max replied, remembering the time they had penetrated a museum full of high tech defenses. This would require a different technique, but he could picture the Master handling it. Maybe, just maybe, McAllister had taught Max enough that he could survive it too. And there were ways to light the darkness. Crag Castle wasn't high on Max's list of tourist stops, but you never knew what would come up, and if the way home led through the labyrinth, then Max would not back down, even though he hated the idea.

"Good," Vesper replied, although she didn't sound entirely reassured.

"I don't know about all this magic, though," Max admitted honestly. "It scares me."

"It scares me too," she confessed. "Dare says anybody who isn't scared by it is a fool. Of course Dare thinks everybody is a fool but him, but this time I think he's right."

"What do you do in all this?" Max wanted to know.

"I'm a Guard," Vesper replied. "My duty is to the Protectorate, and I'm assigned to Arran's personal Guard troop. Dagan is our sergeant, and he's tough, but he's decent. There are a lot worse people to work for."

"Have you been in battle?"

"Yes."

From the abruptness of her answer, Max decided it would be better not to ask any more questions, but Vesper had the seasoned look of a warrior who has killed before. She didn't particularly like it, but she did it because it was her job and it was necessary. Life here was harder than back home, or maybe Max had some chauvinistic ideas he hadn't realized he had. If Vesper had been a man instead of a woman, he wouldn't have been shocked. Used to rescuing damsels in distress, Max wasn't quite sure how to deal with one who did her own rescuing. He wondered how people were chosen to the Guard.

"Anyone can go into it," Vesper explained when he asked. "My father and mother were both guards, so there didn't seem to be much choice for me, although my brother decided to go into the church."

"Church?" Max asked a few questions and discovered that religion here was a loosely organized thing and ranks translated to priests, bishops, and cardinals, although the actual words must be different. It had dawned on Max that he was speaking a different language and as long as he didn't think about it. He had no problem with it, the words translating automatically in his head. But when he tried to pin it down and do a literal translation, it blurred away from him. Now he knew he was getting a translation that was familiar to him, but the religion Vesper described didn't really resemble Christianity unless it was in the structure of the hierarchy. It was monotheistic, but it seemed to have a basis in some primitive ritualistic structure, slowly modernizing. There had been human sacrifices once, but those days had been banished centuries past. Vesper spoke with scorn of a few holdouts in the remote mountains and amid the occasional plains tribe where 'modern' civilization hadn't found its way yet. She pointed out a man in a red cloak riding at the head of the column, whom Max hadn't noticed the night before. "That's Bishop Alver," she explained. "He came along to celebrate the ritual. You were probably still asleep."

"What's the ritual like?" Max asked, interested.

"It's a holdover from the old sacrifice days." she explained. "Only now an image is sacrificed instead, an offering unto the day. Made of grass or straw or wood. It has to be newly made each time."

"An effigy?" Max asked, and she nodded.

There was something of a commotion up ahead and the whole party began to slow down. Vesper's hands tightened on the reins as she drew her team up, and a few minutes later, Arran and the Master rode their horses back along the train. "Lunch," the Master told Max. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine." He had almost forgotten his injury, and now, reminded of it, he was pleased to note that it felt better. He hopped easily down from the wagon, grimacing slightly as the landing jarred it, and the Master said. "I'll change the dressing. You'll be okay in a couple of days."

"Great."

The troop of soldiers shared out food quickly and efficiently, sticks of dried meat and slices of coarse bread, followed by an apple-like fruit with a pulpier texture and a sweeter taste. McAllister sat with Max as they ate. "I've been finding out more about this world," he explained. "It looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

"How're we supposed to be able to take on a sorceress?" Max asked skeptically, taking a bite from his pseudo apple.

"As near as I can make out, her powers aren't supposed to work against me," McAllister said mildly. "But that doesn't mean she can't use conventional means, and her powers _will_ work against other people. She's strong, but there is only so much she can do at anyone time, and she can't do it indefinitely."

"You hope," Max muttered. He didn't like the thought of the Master confronting Serralla one bit.

"She contacted me as soon as I arrived," McAllister confided, too low for Vesper to hear. "Some kind of telepathy, I believe. It felt strange. She knows I'm a threat to her and she understands why a lot better than I do. I'm learning what she can do--and one of the things could be to force someone else to try to harm me. Which means I'll need to be on my guard against her--and other people."

"I'll keep an eye on you," offered Max.

"She might even be able to reach you, Max."

"She couldn't make me hurt _you_ ," Max protested, tossing away his 'apple' core.

"She might make you believe I was someone else," McAllister explained. "A threat of some kind. I'm telling you this so you'll know what we're up against."

"But you make it sound _impossible_!"

"Max, Max," the Master chided, shaking his head. "Haven't I taught you yet that nothing's impossible? You make it impossible by doubting yourself."

"But if they can get to me--"

"I do know a few things about self-defense, Max."

"Yeah, but they may try to poison you or shoot you from a distance or something like that."

"They may try. The Royal House seems exempt from Serralla's powers. That is, they can see through her psionic talents. She can create an illusion and they can see it, but it doesn't look right, and they can tell it's not real. So they've decided that Arran will stick close to me as much as possible. They _think_ you'll be able to see past the illusions too, since you're not from this world, but they won't know for sure until she tries something. If I'm really the Defender, then I'm immune, too."

"If!" cried Max. "You mean they might have brought you here and you're not the one at all! How are we supposed to know?"

"We'll know--when the time comes. That's what Dare says."

"Yeah, and I'll bet he enjoyed every bit of it." Max grimaced. "I don't like that guy."

"It's just his way," said McAllister mildly. "He's been through a lot. So he doesn't let much get through to him. Raban's about the only real friend he has left, besides his brother, although that seems to be different."

"Well, brothers don't always get along," Max pointed out. He'd been close to his own brother, but just looking at Dare, he could tell that things would be different there.

"Probably the best thing for you to do is to stay out of Dare's way," McAllister said.

"You bet I'll stay out of his way," Max agreed. "He gives me the creeps."

"We're ready to start again," said an amazingly bland voice just behind him, and Max stiffened before he looked up. It was Dare, standing there with a cold, expressionless face. Max lifted his eyes for a minute to the older man's, and he was startled to see a glimpse of sardonic humor flash in the Minister's eyes. He ignored Max's unwary words completely. _Oops_.

McAllister said to Dare, "I want to dress Max's wound again before we go."

"Then be quick about it."

McAllister took out his first aid kit and set to work, while Dare hovered over them, peering over the Master's shoulder to inspect the wound. "It looks clean," he commented. "Dagan knows his stuff, and so do you, apparently." He turned to Max. "How does it feel?"

"Better." Max was surprised to hear something resembling concern in the man's voice, but then if he was supposed to be the Acolyte, whatever that entailed, Dare might be concerned about his health for the sake of their country rather than anything more personal.

"Good." Dare caught his eyes and held them briefly, and Max had to work hard to keep from looking away. Finally the man nodded, then turned abruptly. "I'll tell the column to start again," he called over his shoulder. "We should reach Abarant in two hours."

Back in the cart again, Max passed the two hours sleeping. Vesper grinned as he grew more and more drowsy. "Go ahead, catch a nap," she suggested. "Any good soldier knows that you take your sleep when you can get it. You'll need all your strength for what's to come." So he stretched out in the back of the cart, on top of a couple of supply sacks. He'd had worse beds, although not very often. Between that and the jolting of the cart, he didn't expect to sleep, especially since he had to shift around to make sure he didn't roll on Henry, but he did, and when he awoke, they had slowed down and there seemed to be a lot of shouting.

Fearing trouble, Max sat up hastily, wishing he had a better weapon than his knife. But when he looked around, he realized that it wasn't trouble after all, just arrival. They had reached Abarant.

Max had expected something like a fairy tale castle, and while Abarant had a drawbridge and thick walls, it was squarer and more solid than something with tall spires and turrets. It was a big block-shaped building, high walls surrounding an inner courtyard that was full of life and confusion, little shops and homes built into the inner walls. They had just crossed the drawbridge when Max awoke, and, looking backward, he could see a good sized walled town behind him, sloping down to a river valley. The river was a broad one with ships and barges drawn up at a series of docks. There must be a good river trade in this world. The houses in the town, which looked like they might have been built of adobe or some kind of plaster, had been painted in bright colors by the locals, who seemed to favor yellow and green and red. Some of the roofs were thatch and some tile, and the closer to the castle they were, the bigger and grander they got. He could tell that some of them held walled inner gardens, even though the outsides were plain and unadorned except for color.

Then the castle walls closed around them and he couldn't see the town any more. One end of the grounds contained a huge formal garden; the other side was given over to small shops. An arched gateway led to another, inner courtyard, and it was through this gate that Vesper guided her horses. Some of the troops turned away, heading toward the shops and a smaller passageway that led to another enclosed area, but Dagan and two of his men, along with Dare, Arran, Chel, Bishop Alver, and the Master, went through the arched gate. Once inside the inner court, Vesper halted the wagon behind an elaborate formal carriage with something resembling a six-legged green lizard harnessed in the traces. Max goggled at it blankly. Scanning the court, he saw that several other teams of lizards were being led away toward the stables. Vesper's horses seemed unconcerned.

"What're those?" Max demanded in an undertone, pointing.

"What, the lizards? Don't you have lizards in your world?"

"Not tame ones that big," Max replied.

"Oh. Well, they're a lot faster than horses, so when someone comes from outside the Protectorate, they usually travel by lizard. Our army is mostly lizard mounted, but the Guard favors horses. We're the castle's defenders rather than a part of the main army, you see." It was clear the Guard felt superior to the regular army.

A man stood at the main door awaiting them, a tall, solidly built man with a mop of brown curls and a stubborn face that warmed into life at the sight of Arran and Dare, who dismounted in front of him. Arran gave the man a quick and casual salute before they gripped each other's arms at the elbows. Max couldn't hear what they were saying, but they seemed pleased with each other. Then the curly haired man turned to Dare with a broad smile, and Dare raised his voice. "We've brought them for you," he said, pride and mockery filling his voice in equal parts. "The Defender and the Acolyte. My lord Protector Raban," he went on formally, "meet John Peter McAllister and Max Keller." He threw a glance at Max that had him down from the wagon and on the steps beside the Master in an instant. You didn't trifle with that kind of look. Dare heaved a sigh as if to disassociate himself from the proceedings, and said, "It's good to be back. I was getting tired of their beknighted culture."

"I wouldn't recognize you if you weren't complaining," Raban told him, and Max detected fondness in his voice that seemed to disconcert Dare. Then he turned to face them. "Welcome. I trust Dare has explained our situation here. I know it's expecting a lot of you to take an interest in our problems, and if you should choose not to stay and help us, we'd understand."

Dare made an abortive gesture of protest, and Arran cried out, "But, Father, they--"

"Enough." Raban obviously expected obedience, and he got it. Arran fell silent, and Dare donned an expressionless mask.

McAllister smiled a little. "Dare told us what was expected," he said. "Admittedly, he didn't tell us until we were already in your world, but I have to admit I'm interested. I've fought a lot of different enemies in my day, but an alien sorceress is something I have yet to encounter. If I'm really in your prophecy, it seems fated that I'd come here. Max doesn't have to stay, but I will."

"Hey, old fella," Max objected. "If you're staying, so am I. Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble."

The Master threw him a sour smile, and Raban, realizing that both of them had consented to stay, smiled with a warmth that must draw followers to him in droves.

"Let's go inside," he said. "We've got a lot to talk about." He clapped a friendly hand on Dare's shoulder, seemingly unconcerned when the Minister stiffened and shrugged it off, although Dare did not move away. Chel clattered noisily up the stairs to join them, throwing a grin of greeting at Raban and a sly look at Dare, who ignored him. Not the least put out, Raban led them all inside.

  


 

*****

 

  


McAllister still found that there were moments when he needed to pinch himself to believe this was real instead of a drug-induced hallucination. Although he had a larger sense of the possible than most people, this stretched his imagination in ways he'd never quite expected, and from the mildly disgruntled, perplexed and skeptical expression on Max's face, he realized his pupil was having a harder time of it than he was. Max was the wrong age to accept what must look like fantasy; he had to work too hard at being grown up to allow his guard to slip enough to be comfortable with all this. When he'd lived as many years as McAllister had, he would know that the impossible was usually something that just hadn't happened yet.

McAllister gave Max a pat on the shoulder as they settled into chairs around a long trestle table in a vast room hung about with tapestries. The windows high in the walls were stained glass- _-out of Max's reach_ , he thought fondly--and the light came from candles in wall sconces and from something that shone like a primitive electric light but couldn't really be. This culture was nowhere near industrial revolution standards yet. McAllister eased closer and found the light was contained in a glowing transparent box made of some material that felt like glass but sturdier. There seemed to be no source for the light, just a steady, brilliant glow. He cocked a curious eyebrow at Chel, who was sitting beside him. "What's the power source?" he asked in an undertone.

"What, the glowbox?" Chel grinned. "Not electricity." The English word sounded strange to McAllister, like a foreign language, driving home the peripheral awareness that they had been speaking another tongue since their arrival. "The power source is magic, what else?" Chel informed him as if there could be no doubt of it.

"Magic?" Max leaned around him and stared, first at Chel and then at the glowbox. "How does it work?"

"Any competent magician can do a glowbox," Chel explained. "The magician simply vibrates the air trapped in there, and it glows until he damps it again. Simple."

"For you maybe," said Max skeptically.

Chel grinned. "Any real genius could do it."

"You're mean _you're_ a magician?" the Master asked him in surprise.

"That's right. I'm not in Serralla's league, though. I can do most spells and light glowboxes and I can ward our camps, although that takes a lot out of most magicians. I can get past other people's wards too. If we have to go to Crag Castle, I'll need to come." He sounded disgusted at the idea, and McAllister realized he was afraid but wouldn't admit it. Dare would probably be scornful of his brother's fear.

Raban took a seat at the head of the table. It was larger than the others with an ornately carved back, but Raban had the presence to fit the chair comfortably without looking like a child trying to put on his elder's clothes. The man radiated a presence that McAllister could feel. Raban was a natural leader whose warmth and charisma could draw even people like Dare to his side. Although Raban was a natural leader, Dare was _not_ a natural follower. It would require a very compelling man to win Dare's loyalty. McAllister looked expectantly at Raban and waited to hear what he had to say.

"I've put the Council on hold," Raban said quickly in answer to a question from Dare. "I didn't want them to meet our Defender until I was sure. I want to set the stage properly. I've got twenty leaders in the other Hall, and everyone of them is willing to form an alliance--if it benefits him. Nobody trusts anybody else, and each man feels he is best qualified to lead the army."

"As I expected," muttered Dare under his breath.

"Yes, we know you've been skeptical," Arran snapped. "Why don't you just wait and see what my father has to say."

"Well now, he'll tell us eventually," Dare responded, but he fell silent and threw his leader a pointedly expectant look.

"What I want to do now," Raban went on as if there had been no interruption, "is to verify the prophecy. We can go over what we know of it and what we have learned of McAllister and Max. You can fill us in," he told the Master expectantly. Max shifted in resentment, but he held his tongue. "Chel, you're most familiar with the magical side of things. You saw them in their own world. What do you think?"

"I think he's got enough power to take Serralla. He's not a trained magician, and he won't need to be, but he's very controlled, and I don't think she'll scare him. He might scare her though if he's really what we're looking for." His eyes danced at the thought.

"Why don't you tell just about the prophecy," McAllister suggested. "That way we'd come closer to knowing."

"A good idea," Raban agreed. "Chel, you do it. You can tell it best."

Chel nodded. "All right. The legend has been around since the beginning of our history, and it takes many forms; poems, songs, stories to tell around the campfire. I'll just tell you the basic story, and you can see what you think of it. Long ago it was foretold that a time of crisis would come when our different nations would be in danger of being devoured by a swift-advancing threat, a threat that contained the power of magic. The legend says the threat will come from a woman who uses her powers to benefit herself. You see, in our world, magic is not supposed to be used for gain. Oh, it is," he conceded when Dare threw him a scornful look. "But not on such a scale. Maybe, knowing about the prophecy, magicians have been extra careful. Someone in one of the villages will sell love charms for profit, and magicians have been known to try to influence weather conditions in battle to support their side, but that's different from using magic purely to advance one's own power. Everybody does it a little--being the only one in a town who can light glowboxes does give a nice feeling of power--but it's harmless really. It's only when it's taken like Serralla does that the nature of the threat matches the prophecy. They say she killed her own father or had him killed so she could take over the duchy of Erly and get her start. The Duke of Erly was a powerful man, but he had honor and Serralla doesn't. Worse, she uses her power directly on troops in battle. She puts up imaginary fire walls and turns men so that her own troops can slaughter them. And when the word got out that she did it, she started mixing magic with real fire so the troops couldn't risk facing it; if they did, they might get burned for real. Then, when a battle is won, she influences the defeated army to make them join her. In the old days, after a little war, the losing side would pay taxes for a while to the victor and then in a year or so, they'd challenge and fight a new battle or two to free themselves. It was almost like a game."

"The trouble with games like that," McAllister put in, "is that they're only valid as long as everyone follows the same rules. Once Serralla started her takeover, everything changed."

"You're saying you want us to fight her on her terms?" Raban asked, his face reflecting his disgust at the idea. "That's _her_ way. If we do the same, where's the difference between us?"

"If you don't do something soon, it won't matter," Dare insisted. "We have to fight back on her terms or she'll wipe us out."

"Not necessarily." Raban grinned suddenly. "There's the prophecy."

"Ah yes." Dare's voice was sarcastic. "The prophecy. How could I have forgotten? You'd better go on, Chel. Let these outlanders know what's really happening here. Maybe they'll choose to return home after all."

"And maybe not," Max burst out hotly.

"Easy, Max," McAllister muttered under his breath. "Tell us the rest of it, Chel."

Chel spared his brother a doubtful look, then he shook his head and plunged on. "The prophecy had the bit in it about Serralla killing her own father and taking over more and more lands by the misuse of her power. No one has ever done that before in the history of Lorrania. But the prophecy continues that a hero will appear at the time of need, that he will be found by someone of the Protectorate--all the versions of the prophecy say that, even the ones in other countries--and that he will be a man of great power. He will use wheels of death to defeat his enemies. He will walk among them invisible and will defeat them with strange and awesome weapons. He will be a man who has crossed the waters to leave the darkness behind him, a man who has killed and walked with evil power but who has renounced it and turned his life away from the old ways of the past."

Max sucked in his breath sharply at the terminology. McAllister smiled a little. He had often told Max--and Okasa--that the old ways were gone. How strange it seemed to hear those very words in a prophecy here.

"The Defender will be accompanied by his acolyte, who has begun to learn the Defender's powers," Chel continued. "Together they can vanquish their enemies. The Defender can stand up to Serralla's powers because he has vanquished them already in another life. She will try to turn him to the darkness again, and the temptation will be great, but he will not be tempted. He will meet her in psychic combat and vanquish her, and the Acolyte will guide the way through the darkness to victory, blocking the sorceress' power."

Max sat up sharply. McAllister had heard what Vesper had told him earlier about the dark labyrinth beneath Crag Castle, and now Max shivered slightly at the idea of it. Bad enough to be stranded in an alien world with the Master, even worse to be alone and in danger. McAllister could read his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them aloud, and he gave his pupil a reassuring look. "Don't worry, Max. I think we still have some options here, and we'll take every precaution."

Chel offered a look that could hardly be called reassuring. He said solemnly, "I've always interpreted that part of the prophecy to mean that the Acolyte would find a way to get to Serralla's power source and destroy it while the Defender prevented her from stopping him."

"Power source?" Max tried to sound tough, although McAllister could sense his fear. He didn't blame Max. He'd be scared too--in fact he _was_ scared, on Max's behalf and on his own.

"Every magician has a power source that he can draw strength from to perform his magic," Chel explained. "Mine's--well, I'd rather not say. But it's usually something that looks like an ordinary object--like your medallion for instance, McAllister," he explained, pointing to the butterfly symbol the Master wore, the sign of his household. "Simple objects like the amulet you were given can be temporarily infused with power--that one will link you to Dare and Arran if need be, but that's all it will do. But a magician's power source is infused with much more. One of the first things a magician does is design his power source, and the stronger he gets, the more power he stores in it. Then, when magic is needed, he draws power from it--in your world, it would be like charging a battery. When the power is drained, the magician must rest and restore power before he performs anything but routine magic again. Serralla is so powerful that her source will be carefully guarded, but it will also be constantly recharged. She might sacrifice other energy into it--if she defeats a magician, she can feed his power into her source. One thing that's been in her favor is that she has set the confrontations so far, so she could choose a time when she was power-high. I'm no match for her, but I've been hoarding power since this all began. Ranna opened the gateway for us, since she is staying in your world. It doesn't really take a magician to do that, but if I had, it would have used power. If we can get to Serralla's power source, we might be able to drain it off or block it from her. She won't have it with her, but shielded somewhere at Crag Castle."

"So I'm supposed to go to Crag Castle?" Max asked. "And get in through the labyrinth? Okay, so I get in. How do I recognize the power source when I see it?"

"Optimistic, aren't you?" Dare asked scornfully. "How do you know about the labyrinth?"

"Vesper told me. I can find my way in the dark. I know it's dangerous and I don't like the idea much, but I can handle it if I have to. But I wouldn't know a power source from a dragon's egg. It sounds like you don't know what she uses either."

Chel shook his head. "I don't. But I'd recognize it if I saw it. That's why I'll have to come with you." He made a pathetic grimace like a child who has been told he will have to take a dose of nasty medicine.

"Just a minute," interrupted Raban. "This isn't settled yet. I don't know that's what the prophecy about the Acolyte means."

"I have always thought much the same thing," Dare acknowledged.

"Max is not fully trained," McAllister objected. "If he is required to do something as dangerous as this sounds, we'll need a lot more information before I consent to it."

"What about you, old fella?" Max returned. "All they want me to do is infiltrate someplace and steal something. But you've got to face off against the most powerful magician in the world. That's a lot worse than what they want me to do."

"If the prophecy is true, then I have the power to do it."

"Yeah, if you do everything right the first time around and nothing goes wrong."

McAllister grinned. "Don't I always?"

"If the two of you mean to accept the terms of the prophecy, we'll give you all the backing we can," Raban offered. "Chel will go with Max to identify Serralla's power source, and Arran and Dare will back McAllister. Arran should be immune to her power, and as near as we can tell, Dare has enough magic to feel a spell being set upon him."

Dare grimaced scornfully. "Do I? Naturally I can detect her, but I am no magician, Raban, and you know it. If you choose to believe anything else, you are a fool."

"Maybe you're no magician, brother mine," Chel told him, grinning, "but you can sense when magic's being used, and that's a talent in itself."

"Is it? Oh thank you. I appreciate your praise."

"Enough," Raban snapped. "We won't get any further quarreling among ourselves--what's that?"

McAllister followed the Lord Protector's eyes and saw that Max had taken Henry from his pocket and was engaged in feeding him breadcrumbs left over from lunch. His seeming unconcern would stand Max in good stead with the others, and McAllister wondered if he'd produced Henry to appear more confident than he really was or if the hamster had suddenly moved to remind Max of his presence.

Max grinned at Raban. "Henry, meet the Lord Protector. You can't complain I never introduce you to the right people after this. This is Henry. He's a hamster."

Raban smiled and took the animal when Max passed him over, holding Henry and stroking his head with one finger. "I think you had better leave him behind when you go into battle, Sir Max," he suggested.

"I kind of planned on it. Do you have somebody here who can watch him for me while I'm gone?"

"My daughter Sharna. She's twelve and very soft hearted. I think she'd be happy to volunteer." He passed Henry back. "You can meet her after you go before the Council. We've got a score of rulers here arguing away in the other Chamber. No one wants to yield an inch and I don't think they believe me when I tell them that we might be close to fulfilling the prophecy."

"We can give them a demonstration if you like," offered McAllister. "What do you say, Max? A ninja workout?"

Max grinned broadly. "Do you promise to be gentle?"

"Every bit as much as you deserve."

"Oh well, I can only die once." He turned to Raban. "When?"

"Is now too soon? If we can convince them of your abilities, maybe the council will settle down to work out an agreement on the merging of the armies."

  


 

*****

 

  


"This isn't going to work," Max retorted under his breath, glancing around the room. Raban had wasted no time presenting him and the Master to the High Council, and now they stood in the center of a vast room. Tables had shoved hastily back against the walls to leave a space for the demonstration, and the councillors bunched abound near them, united, if in nothing else, in their suspicion of the outworlders. Max had half expected them all to be Caucasian humans as everyone had been so far, but while many of them were, several were black and there were two or three of them clad in exotic robes and bright colors, who had a more primitive look to them as if they had come from further away. There seemed to be no sign of racial discrimination; differences were regional rather than racial, as near as Max could tell. The councillors from the plains nations of Lothana, Lahana, and Rotha held themselves aloof from the others, and those from Crea, Luzana, and Rith, down near the gulf, had haughty airs as if they were culturally superior to the nations along the two rivers. Raban had gone through their names very quickly, and Max didn't remember any of them except for the aged and proud Rath of Lothana, who had a sword slash across one cheek, and a tall, striking woman of middle years with jet black hair and a jewel set in her forehead whose name was Thiel of Yere, and one of the primitive types with rather Eskimo-like features, whose name was Jak. He came from a nation called Varak. The others had blurred together quickly in his memory, although Max suspected that the Master could remember all of them. He was good at things like that. "The Defender and the Acolyte will give us a demonstration of some of their gifts," Raban announced. "You may ask questions later."

"Assuming they really are the Defender and the Acolyte," one of the Southern councillors muttered in a supercilious voice, and several others agreed.

''I'll let you be the judge of that," Raban agreed placidly, and Max knew he was risking a lot on them. If he and the Master let the Protector down, he would lose face and power in the council, and all Raban had to go on was the word of his son and Dare, who had given him reports of their skill. Raban had not taken time for a private demonstration to verify their claims. Max knew he wouldn't want to be the one to call Dare a liar, but neither would he want to take as big a chance as Raban was taking now. On the other hand, maybe Raban could sense the Master's abilities. People with no experience at judging such things could often tell there was something special about the Master. Maybe Raban could too. He'd have to be a good judge of people to rule well.

McAllister stepped into the midst of the circle. "My assistant fought a mur-wolf yesterday with a knife and killed it," he said in such matter of fact tones that only the most suspicious of men would doubt him, and there were awed gasps. "He sustained a minor arm wound," McAllister continued, "so we will give you only a shortened version of our demonstration today. I think you'll find it interesting. Please stay back at the edges of the room, and be assured that the smoke will not harm you." Pausing after this tantalizing bit of information he said, "Come on, Max. Practice routine."

They went through a series of throws and falls, which the spectators enjoyed vocally with cheers and catcalls. When McAllister was satisfied that they could recognize something of the basic fighting skills, he set up a tightrope, running it across a corner of the room about four feet off the floor and swung himself up easily, running lightly and effortlessly back and forth. Dismounting with a flip, he gestured to Max, who grimaced to himself and stepped forward. He'd never liked the tightrope routine, but hours of practice had developed him into a competent performer, and he completed the routine with assurance, if not with the flourish the Master had managed. That drew appreciative comments from the crowd.

McAllister could be a showman if he had to be. He reached into his pocket and removed a shuriken, then two more. Before anyone could react, he flung them in quick succession to land in a triangular pattern on the back of the nearest door. They hung there quivering while gasps and murmurs echoed from the councillors. 'Wheels of death' had been a part of the prophecy, and for the Master to produce them now was exactly what was needed. Max could feel the mood of the group beginning to swing from skepticism to cautious support.

McAllister had still more tricks up his sleeve. He produced a smoke bomb and flung it down before him. When the smoke cleared, he had vanished without a trace. He waited just long enough for the crowd to realize he was gone before he reappeared high up one of the walls in an alcove. When they discovered him there, the crowd burst into spontaneous applause, thumping on the tables with their fists and with flagons, and whistling between their teeth. McAllister came down with a flip in a dismount that would have given him a gold medal in the Olympics gymnastics competition. Before the applause could die away, he threw another smoke bomb and vanished again. This time, the crowd had an idea what to expect, and they looked around hastily, trying to discover where the Defender had gone. When the smoke cleared, there was no trace of him, and Max stood alone in the center of the room grinning, while they sought the Master. Raban laughed heartily when McAllister emerged from amid the crowd of rulers, doffing a red priest's cloak that had been hanging on the back of the door.

"Are you convinced?" Raban asked.

"Convinced he knows his tricks," Thiel said in a strong voice. "But we're talking about a sorceress, Rab. You've fought against me a time or two, and I trust your word, but I don't know about anyone, prophecy or no, taking on that witch woman and surviving. If she keeps coming, we'll go under and she won't be very tolerant of anyone who's fought against her."

"Then you'll have to surrender Yere to her, Thiel, because she's killed the leader of every nation she's defeated so far. I'd rather go down fighting than take a chance I'll live as a slave."

"Well said, laddie," one of the other councillors--the one from Cerrina, north and east of the Protectorate--agreed. "I like a good fight, and I don't like what Serralla's doing to our world. These two are strangers here and they'll go home when they're done, but if they want to fight for us, I say let them. I don't want to go under. We're desperate, Thiel. I don't think we've got the luxury of saying no."

Raban joined the Master and Max. "I'll have the two of you shown to your rooms now so you can rest. I'll let the council talk and they can make up a list of questions for you if they have them. I'm sure the two of you would be glad of a chance to spend time together to make your own decisions."

McAllister nodded, and Max knew he would be. So when Arran appeared at his side and said, "Let's go," the two of them followed him. He led them through a series of passages and up a flight of stone steps so old that hollows were worn in the treads, then down more passages. "I'll delegate a servant to show you the way around," Arran said. "It can be confusing for a newcomer. We've had these two rooms prepared for you. If you want anything, just ask." A servant leaped forward to open the nearest door, and Arran waved them in with a courtly gesture, pointing down the hall to the door of the second room. "I think it'll work," he said with a broad grin. "The demonstration went well. It was a good idea. I'd like to learn some of that. I don't suppose I could have a quick lesson, could I?"

"We'll see," McAllister temporized.

  


 

*****

 

  


"I don't believe all this," said Max when the two of them were alone in McAllister's room. "It's crazy, right? We're in the Twilight Zone." He hummed a few bars of the theme.

McAllister smiled at him. "Skeptical, Max?"

"Well, yeah, aren't you? I mean, all of a sudden we're in some other dimension or something and they expect us to fight for them. It's crazy." He shook his head. "This kind of thing just doesn't happen. What's going on?"

"I know how you feel, Max," McAllister commented mildly. "At first I thought it was a dream too, but it's not. It's real. We don't understand everything in the universe yet."

"We sure don't," Max conceded. "I keep hoping I'll wake up but it's gone past that. So we're here and we have to fight. It doesn't say anywhere in the rules that we won't get killed. What happens if we just say, 'No thanks', and go home?"

"We don't know if they'll _let_ us go home unless we do what they want us to," McAllister offered, testing the softness of the bed with a careful prod. It felt like a feather mattress. Too soft. He turned back to Max expectantly.

"Nah, Raban would," Max replied promptly. "You can tell that much." He shrugged. "I guess we can't take off, can we?"

"It isn't our fight," McAllister suggested, watching him closely. Max didn't disappoint him.

"When has that ever stopped us? They need help. It just seems like it'll be the hardest fight we've ever had. I think I know what I'm supposed to do. I catch myself planning it. But I don't see how you can stop Serralla. She already knows you've come and if she can reach you, doesn't that mean she knows where you are? How're you supposed to beat her? It doesn't make any sense. And all this magic!"

"Don't you believe in magic, Max?" McAllister grinned broadly at his befuddled pupil.

"I don't know _what_ to believe. Okay, so they've got different rules here. But _we've_ still got the same rules. Just because we're here doesn't mean _we_ can do magic."

"We're speaking a different language because we're here," the Master pointed out. He clapped Max on the shoulder. "You're right, though. Being here won't give us magic skills even if it could give us the potential. Like everything else, skill in magic would take a lot of practice. I can't use magic to fight Serralla. She'd win if I did. I have to fight her on my terms."

"Does she know that?"

"I think so," replied McAllister. "Otherwise she wouldn't fear me--and she does."

"That's a big help," Max retorted skeptically. "The more dangerous she thinks you are, the harder she'll fight."

"Because that's what _you_ do when you're scared?" McAllister asked fondly. "Don't worry, Max. A little fear's healthy, but if you start worrying about what might happen, you could freeze at the crisis."

"So how will you handle her? With ninja weapons?"

"Wheels of death?" McAllister asked, recalling the quotes from the prophecy. "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't think I was brought here because of my fighting ability, Max. It was you they tested in the bar, not me. If either of us has to fight, it'll be you."

"But you're so much better than I am."

"And you're better at ninjutsu than anyone else in this world."

Max grinned at that. "Yeah, you're right," he realized, a cocky look on his face.

"Don't let it go to your head," McAllister warned him. "Just don't let the odds overwhelm you. You won't be going in alone. You'll have a magician at your back."

"Sure. Deep in enemy territory. I don't know how we'll get there in the first place without being spotted. Oh, wait a minute. Yes, I do."

McAllister looked at him expectantly. Now that Max had dealt with his initial disbelief, he was starting to think. Max could be very inventive, in fact sometimes a little _too_ inventive. McAllister masked an amused shudder at the thought of some of Max's previous stunts. That Max was slowly outgrowing his more outrageous ideas was a good thing. With a smile, McAllister remembered the times he had wondered if his earnest and hotheaded student wouldn't drive him to an early grave with some of his pranks. But Max went on improving, and this time he didn't look like someone whose schemes would create more troubles than they'd solve. "What do you have in mind?"

"Vesper told me that the priests aren't limited to any one country. What if Chel and I dressed up like priests? Maybe we wouldn't be questioned as much as we would otherwise. It might be the safest way to get through."

"Neither of you is really a priest though. What if you had to perform the ritual?"

"I could learn, I guess, if it isn't sacrilegious."

"Well, we'll see. Right now, let me take a look at your arm, then you can catch a nap until dinner. We're going to need our strength to make it through this alive."

  


 

*****

 

  


"It's crazy. The whole thing is crazy, Father."

Raban looked at his son, who was sprawled on one of the settees in Raban's suite. He looked frustrated and excited at the same time, but he also looked relaxed, his tunic unlaced, and his boots loosened. "I've been to another world," he continued. "I can still hardly believe it. We brought back two men who are supposed to save our world. I wish I could see Serralla face to face, just for five minutes. I'd put a stop to her right away."

"Or she could kill you," Raban reminded him mildly.

"Her magic doesn't work on our line."

"Her troops are many and her ways need not include magic."

Arran grimaced. "I know. It just seems hard to depend on outworlders to save us. We've always handled our own problems before."

"Now you sound like Dare."

Arran's head jerked up and he stared at his father in offended dignity. "Dare! How do you cope with him, Father? I know he's your friend and you like him, but I can't understand why. Spending all that time with him drove me crazy."

"It's different with me," Raban said softly. "With him at my side, I'm complete. We're two parts of a whole, greater together than separate. He may not acknowledge it publicly, but he feels the same. He's the cynic to balance my dreams. I don't know why I'm drawn to him or he to me. It's just--I'm glad the two of you can look after each other because I don't want to do without either of you."

Arran shook his head. "I still don't get it. He treats everyone like he despises them. He acts so superior. It bothers me."

"If we're to talk of acting superior, son..."

The young man conceded his father's point with a wry grin. "I know what you're saying. But it's different with me. Dare makes me so angry."

"You make it easy for him, Arran. Part of it is that he feels compelled to protect you. He is your godfather, remember, and part of his duties include assuring your safety."

"I do know how to take care of myself."

"If he'd come back from the other world without you, he would have blamed himself no matter what he says. He feels an obligation to me--and you're my son. You can trust him."

"I'm not worried about that. It's not hard to trust him. It's hard to like him."

"I seem to recall a little boy who used to dog his footsteps."

Arran shook his head. "Yes, but I can recall a man who had patience with me and smiled occasionally. What happened to that man?"

"Too many things, son, and you know most of them. When he lost his wife and child, it was never satisfactorily explained. He believes, as we all do, that they were killed by magic, but there's no proof of it, or explanation. Even Chel didn't have an answer for him."

"He doesn't think _we_ had anything to do with it?"

"Of course not." Raban shook his head. "You know our line is immune to magic. It can't be used against us and neither can we use it. That's been an advantage so far, but now we have to fight Serralla and for the first time it's a disadvantage."

"Not completely, though. She can't use her powers against us. As long as we've got magicians backing us, we're better off than most of our opponents. I don't see how McAllister can really help us. Wouldn't he be immune to magic too?"

"In a different way," Raban replied. "She can throw everything she's got against him, draining her power source. If we can coordinate our timing, he can distract her while Max and Chel find and destroy her power source. Then we have a chance of beating her by conventional means. By the time she could develop a new power source, the damage would be done. Chel says it takes years to hone one properly."

"Chel may be a fair court magician, and I like him, but I don't think he's a match for Serralla. What if we're underestimating her, Father?"

Raban poured out two glasses of ale and passed one to his son. "Then it won't matter what else happens, will it? The Protectorate will fall and all the other nations, and we can say goodbye to freedom and you and I will meet the same fate as every other ruler Serralla has vanquished. I don't intend to stop fighting because there's a chance we might lose, and I don't expect you to either."

"I'm not ready to give up," snapped Arran. "I went into another world for you, didn't I? You don't think I'd quit now?"

Raban laughed. "I hope not. I wouldn't recognize you if you gave up."

His son smiled at him. "What next, Father? When do you want Max to leave?"

"It will have to be soon. Tomorrow I'll be in Council all day. We still have a lot of details to work out on the united army and our strategy. But I don't want to leave their departure any later than I must. The Council believes that McAllister and Max are really the Defender and the Acolyte, and that gives us an advantage. We'll send Max and Chel off the day after tomorrow. I want to be sure Max's arm is mending properly. Dagan can go with them. He's good in a fight, and they'll need his strength. But I can't send more or they'll be too conspicuous. I'm still not sure how we'll smuggle them into the Empire yet."

"They might have a few ideas of their own," mused Arran. "I wish I could go with them. I feel like I won't be doing anything, just standing around waiting for Serralla to attack."

"No, patience isn't your strong point. But when the time comes, the Defender will need you. We know you're immune to magic. We only assume the Defender is. I want somebody with him who can't be affected. I wish you could extend your null field to protect him. If there's a chance of that, we have to take it. And Dare will be there too. I can trust him to protect my interests."

"I'm not so sure I can," Arran replied. Then he shook his head. "No, he won't let you down. If it weren't for his loyalty to you, I think I'd hate the man."

"Could you really hate him?" Raban asked gravely, meeting his son's eyes, a regretful look in his own.

Arran shook his head violently. "No, maybe not. But I miss the man who helped raise me."

"That man's still there, son, trapped inside him. I'd give anything to bring him back. Sometimes when I'm alone with him, I see traces of the old Dare, but it never lasts long."

As if he recognized the hurt in his father's voice, Arran looked at him sharply then dropped his eyes. "I know. You went through it, too."

"It wasn't quite as bad for me. I still have you and your sister. Your mother died a natural death, one we could see coming. It doesn't make it easier, but at least we had time for our goodbyes. Lynet knew her time had come, and she went peacefully. I still miss her, of course, but it's easier than what Dare went through. When you or Sharna looks at me with your mother's eyes, that's a plus for me." He clapped his son affectionately on the shoulder. "But I know what it's like to lose a wife, so when I see how Dare is suffering, I can sympathize more easily. Imagine how I'd have reacted if you'd died when your mother did. Don't you think I might be inclined to be like Dare is now?"

"It's not your nature," Arran disagreed. "But I know what you mean. I'll try to be patient with him, but sometimes it's hard not to respond in kind."

"Try. For my sake."

Arran managed a reluctant smile, levering himself up from the settee. "All right, Father, I'll try. Right now, I'll go see if our guests need anything. I hope they can teach me a little of their style of fighting."

Raban laughed. "The last thing you need to learn is another way to fight."

Arran, the taller by some two inches, draped his arm around his father's shoulders. In private, the two were demonstrative, but in public they had to maintain a more formal manner as befitting their station. Now, with no one present, they could be at ease with each other.

Raban hugged his son fondly and let him go. "Learn to fight like them if you can," he urged reluctantly. "I wish we didn't need it but the more protection you have the better I'll like it. And tell our guests they'll dine at my table tonight. That'll be easier than deciding which of the Councillors to favor. At least they won't quarrel among themselves if none of them are placed there."

"I don't envy your job," Arran muttered.

"Someday it will all be yours."

"I needed to hear that."

  


 

*****

 

  


That night Abarant Castle was full of festive lights and colors, as guests mingled in their ceremonial best trying to outdo each other in grandeur. Thiel of Yere made her stately way into the banquet hall surrounded by four bodyguards in Yerean crimson, faces painted with traditional geometric designs in black and white. The lady herself wore a flowing red gown, decked here and there with priceless jewels, holding the scepter of her office in one hand. Her black hair was piled in a knot atop her head, secured with a string of silver beads while another string looped down to dangle loosely below her chin. The jewel in her forehead was green tonight. Someone told Max that the stone was always the same but that she controlled its color by regulating her magic. Looking at the woman in all her exotic finery, Max believed it.

Jak's style was more primitive, his cloak of mur-wolf fur, brushed and treated to make it shine. He wore ceremonial daggers, one in a leg band, two at the waist and one strapped to each wrist, but in deference to his host, restraining thongs held all but one of them in place. Among so many former and future enemies, he would have been a fool to render his weapons all inaccessible. He and several of the other Northern chiefs wore a lot of leather, breastplates of tooled and dyed lizardskin, and gold embossed wristbands.

Some of the other rulers, mostly the chiefs from the river nations, dressed in styles that looked medieval to Max's inexperienced eye, although they were all subtly different from anything he'd seen in pictures and movies back home. Raban wore a patterned green tunic over a green shirt with flowing sleeves gathered tight at the wrist, over tight-fitting pants tucked into soft leather boots. A silver circlet around his forehead indicated his rank of office, and a chain with a device not unlike the one that had been given to the Master hung around his neck. He wore no other jewelry but a signet ring, and unlike some of the men here, there were no decorations painted on his face. Arran stood at his side in the receiving line, wearing green pants and tunic and a white shirt with the same full sleeves as his father's, girded with a lizardskin belt on which hung a short sword. Apparently such weapons were considered appropriate for banquet wear because most of the diners had them, including Thiel and the other women Councillors.

Dare was present, never far from Raban's side, his eyes wary, shifting over the crowd in a random pattern, as if on guard for an assassination attempt against the Protector. The First Minister was clad in black and silver, with a green badge of office on his breast to show his alignment to the Protectorate, and he looked both elegant and dangerous. Max eyed him warily, glad he wouldn't be working closely with this man.

"How are you holding up, Max?" McAllister asked in his ear, and Max jumped because when he had last seen McAllister, he had been across the room, talking to Sharna, Raban's daughter, the child who was watching Henry for him. Like her father and older brother, she wore green, with silver jewelry and she was accompanied by two of the Guard, Vesper and a man Max hadn't met. The Guard uniform for formal occasions was black lizardskin tunics with green badges of office on the left breast, and a full compliment of weapons. Vesper had a long sword and daggers strewn about her person, and the man carried a mace as well as a sword.

"How'd you get over here?" Max demanded. "You were way over there a minute ago."

"I walked," said McAllister with a grin. "Your mind was wandering, Max. You can't let that happen, not here."

"I know. I was just taking a good look at everybody. And getting used to this outfit." He was wearing a short tunic over one of the full sleeved shirts that Protectorate nobility seemed to favor, and he'd exchanged his jeans for tight black pants. He felt silly in the outfit and he hoped nobody would notice. McAllister wore his borrowed finery as if born to it, but maybe years of running around in ninja garb had made it easier for him to cope with strange clothes.

"You'll do." McAllister grinned at Max's discomfiture. "Think how you'd be noticed in your own clothes."

"Everybody here already knows who I am," Max protested. "I don't see why we couldn't dress in our own stuff."

"This is supposed to indicate our ties to the Protectorate," McAllister reminded him. "They're the ones who took the initiative and brought us here."

"And we're supposed to be grateful?"

"Think of it as an adventure."

"That's easy for you to say."

McAllister grinned. "Think so?"

Arran approached then. Max had talked to him earlier and knew that the Prince was dying to learn a few ninja moves, and that McAllister had promised him a workout if there was time. Max rather relished the thought of Arran being tossed about, making a fool of himself the way Max had the first time he'd tried to show the Master how good he was. Max had been sure, after that incident, that he couldn't cut it, but at least he hadn't had a background of armed combat. When Arran screwed up, it would be a lot harder for him, and Max found the Prince arrogant enough to enjoy the thought of his downfall, although the Master would find ways to console him. He'd done that for Max when Max kept landing flat on his back.

"Will you come to the table now?" Arran asked. "My father is ready to begin."

After that the milling crowd suddenly resolved itself into an orderly procession toward the tables. Raban's table was on a dais at one end of the hall. As a servant showed Max his place, he was relieved to see that the dining utensils looked a lot like the ones he was accustomed to. The forks had three tines instead of four, but the knives were the same. There were no spoons; instead there was an unfamiliar implement rather like a short spike. As they were seated, Max realized that the little girl, Sharna, had been removed. Children must not be expected to attend formal meals.

Servants in green Protectorate livery brought in huge platters of food and set them on the tables, and Max discovered what the spikes were for. Raban picked his up and speared a few slices of something that looked like--and might even be--roast beef onto his plate. He then ladled out some yellow stuff of the consistency of mashed potatoes with a kind of scoop, and did the same with vegetables. Peas looked the same, and there was a kind of bean the color of wax beans but longer and thinner. Slices of bread had been set on little trays at each plate, and a giant turkey-sized bird was placed beside Raban's position. He began to carve it, dispensing slices and pieces to the other people at the table. Max grinned when he saw the bird contained a stuffing that looked like it contained wild rice. Things weren't as different as he had expected.

Once Raban finished filling his plate, Arran caught Max's eye and nodded to him to let him know it was all right to begin eating. Max dished up his food, the Master doing the same. Everything was good, although the taste was usually slightly different than what he was used to. The beans were hot and spicy, the peas slightly sweeter, the meat was not beef, being dryer in flavor and seasoned to be spicy, too. The bird was more like pheasant than turkey. The bread and dressing were the only things that really resembled the food he was used to, although there was no butter for the bread; one mopped up the meat juices with it. The yellow stuff defeated him. It tasted like nothing he had ever tried before.

Like a good host, Raban kept asking them if they liked everything, if they wanted more. Max assured him that everything was fine, and took a second helping of the ale that was flowing freely. There was a tangy fruit drink too, sort of an apple-pear mix that was really good. The Master drank it exclusively and told Max it was called grenberry juice.

"I hope it's all to your liking," Raban said again.

"They can hardly say it's not," muttered Dare.

Raban's eyes sparkled at Dare as if accustomed to the other man's bad humor. "Why not? Tastes could be different between our worlds."

"They are," Arran agreed. "I wish I could have brought you back a taco, Father. I think you would have liked it."

From the spiciness of the food, Max was inclined to agree. "Everything's great," he volunteered, forking more food into his mouth.

"And that's a compliment," McAllister said. "Max has a big appetite."

"It's not that bad, old fella," objected Max, looking around at the other tables, where everybody was eating, talking and watching the head table.

Chel helped himself to a third glass of ale. "I've felt Serralla poking around today," he remarked. "She isn't masking it either. She's getting a feel for what's here."

"You can't expect outworlders to believe that, brother mine," Dare told the magician.

"Oh, but we do," McAllister said promptly. "I've already experienced Serralla."

That won him the undivided attention of everyone at the table.

"You've what!" Dare burst out, for once shocked into genuine emotion.

"It wasn't much of a contact, telepathic possibly. She knew when I arrived and she contacted me to see who her enemy would be. She did seem to believe I was the Defender. She said she would see that I was turned back to the Dark. I told her the old ways were gone, and she said, 'Not here.' That was all. I felt that she had exhausted her power in the contact. I didn't know about power sources then, but she didn't appear to have limitless power."

"The next thing to it," Chel muttered. "But for her to hold actual communication over such a distance, unless you were mind-talking too, would drain her fast. What bothers me is that she knew you were here so quickly."

"If we're fated to be enemies, maybe she could sense me that way. I felt her too, and I don't have any magic."

"She didn't try to overpower you?" Raban asked.

"If she did, she failed," McAllister replied. "I felt no influence, just her presence. If it's that draining for her to deal with me long distance, we might have to confront her face to face--at least that's what she'd aim for. If we can lure her away from Crag Castle, it would make it easier for Max and Chel."

"Assuming she doesn't take her power source with her," Max put in.

"She won't do that," Chel replied. "Suppose she was captured or fell into trouble. She couldn't have her power source so exposed. Back at Crag Castle it will be much harder to get at, and it will be warded thoroughly. I'm good at breaking past wards, though. I'm not really a major magician, but I can do that much better than anyone else."

"You're also quite modest," Dare muttered _sotto voce_.

Chel ignored him, continuing. "If we can get to Crag Castle, we can get the power source. Between you to fight and me to steal it, we'll have it made."

"My brother is an incurable optimist," Dare remarked scathingly. "But he forgets there is one true cure for optimism. It's called Death."

Chel made an unhappy face. "You had to say that, didn't you?"

"I don't like the risk."

"Worried about me, are you?" Chel asked brightly.

"Not in the slightest. The Acolyte will protect you."

Max grimaced at the sarcasm in the Minister's voice before turning to the Master. "I don't like this," he declared. "I don't like the idea of her knowing about you this way. It scares me."

"She didn't hurt me, Max."

"Yet."

"Don't you trust me?"

"You I trust. Her I don't."

Raban smiled. "Very wise, Max. Serralla can't be trusted. But we'll have to trust to our collected skills and talents if we hope to defeat her. Once we've accomplished that, I hope her army will fall apart and revert to its component parts, but if it doesn't, the rest of us will be waiting. If her power source is lost, the control she exerts over the troops will fade quickly, and instead of a united Imperial army, we'll have a lot of little armies with their own insular interests to deal with. I'd prefer to avoid a major battle. It won't do the land much good, and the more fighting there is, the more likely we are to lose enough crops to endanger the harvest. I think we have enough to worry about without famine too. I want everyone to return to their homes and maybe we can avoid our little wars for a season or two and give ourselves time to recover from Serralla's power struggle. But that's only if things work out for us. We can't guarantee it, but we have to try. We'd die either way, and I don't intend to take it lying down."

"Going out in a blaze of glory might satisfy you, Raban, but you'd be just as dead," Dare told him. Even Max could hear the concern for his liege lord behind the sneer in the Minister's words.

"I don't want to go out in a blaze of glory," Raban objected. "I want to get on with my life and to keep my family, my friends, and my people intact. Why else would we fight?"

Dare almost smiled, masking it at the last minute, then he turned abruptly to McAllister. "I would appreciate it if you didn't keep any more surprises back. If you hear from Serralla again, we want to know about it immediately. In fact, it would be a good idea to let Chel throw some magic your way to see just how immune you are. If you're not, we should know that before you come face to face with Serralla."

"That's a good idea, Dare," Raban told his friend. "Chel, you can whip up a little harmless magic to see if McAllister can hold out against it."

"It sounds like a good plan," McAllister agreed. "We can try it tomorrow."

  


 

*****

 

  


"Nothing I'll do will actually hurt you," Chel assured McAllister in a diffident voice the next morning. "I want to see if I can create the illusion of pain though. I will try to use it to influence your actions. If what I do causes even the slightest compulsion to act, say so. Remember, Serralla's a lot more powerful than I am, and she'll be trying in deadly earnest. So if you feel a compulsion, we need to know how much of one."

"Don't you have any more powerful magicians in the Protectorate?" McAllister asked mildly. He was somewhat apprehensive about the test, even though he realized it was necessary, but he had calmed himself with ninja techniques and was as prepared as he could be for what was about to happen, knowing his concern did not show on his face. Arran, who was leaning casually against the doorframe, seemed impressed by his calm. Max looked uneasy, and his body language spoke of barely restrained belligerence. If anything went wrong, Max would intervene first and ask questions later. He'd have to do something about that.

"Not really," Chel replied. "Three years ago, my predecessor died, but he was over ninety and he hadn't been fit for a long time. His predecessor, Maranna, was powerful, but she...died, six years ago."

"Maranna?" asked McAllister, for there had been something significant in Chel's voice.

"Dare's wife, my sister-in-law. Their son died with her. That's why he's the way he is, you know. He isn't nasty without good cause. They never found out exactly how Maranna and Larn died. It was strange, as if they'd been murdered, only nobody knew why or how."

"Magic?" The suggestion came from Max, who left his corner bench and came forward eagerly. "Could it have been magic?"

McAllister was surprised at the suggestion, coming from Max, who would be more inclined to think of a more prosaic or Earth-bound solution.

"We do know it had to be magic," Chel agreed. "She might have tried an ambitious spell that backfired on her."

"That's not how it looks to me," Max returned, frowning. He was hovering at McAllister's side as if he could ward off Chel's magic single handed. "If Maranna was that powerful, she would have eventually got in Serralla's way. Maybe the Empress was removing the competition."

" Serralla wasn't in power six years ago," Arran pointed out from the doorway, but his face was thoughtful.

"No, but she must have been planning her takeover then," Max insisted. "Seems to me that overlooking the possibility's stupid. Here we've got a known threat, a power-hungry woman who needs somebody from another dimension to defeat her, and we've also got a powerful magician dead under mysterious circumstances. Did any other magicians die mysteriously since then?"

"Not in the Protectorate," Arran replied. "Raster died of old age, and even if he hadn't, he was getting too old to be effective anyway. When Chel was given his power source after he died, it was almost drained. That happens when a magician gets old; he starts to use his power to combat his physical weakness. Serralla would have considered Raster no threat."

"But Serralla could have killed Maranna," Max insisted. "If she died so mysteriously, why didn't any of you think of it before?"

"Serralla didn't make her move until a couple years later," Chel defended them. "You're coming into this cold from outside, and maybe you can view it more clearly. Now you suggest it, it seems likely that Serralla would have wanted to remove her competition. Have we lost any other magicians since then, Prince?"

Arran frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know. There was that riding accident in Yere that killed Raviel, but nobody suggested it was anything but an accident. The lizard fell at high speed, but that does happen sometimes."

"But it can also be made to happen," McAllister said. "I suggest you guard yourself, Chel."

"I'm not powerful enough to be any threat to her," Chel said bitterly. "I'm little more than a village magician really, who stepped into a court position because there was nobody else and because my brother is First Minister. She might not like the thought of my wards, but I don't think she'd consider me any real danger."

"Village magician," Arran scoffed. "You've got the best wards in Lorrania. I bet even Serralla couldn't get to you without making it obvious."

Chel smiled briefly. "Maybe not. But she could still defeat me in direct confrontation. Even if I teamed with Ronor of Thoth or Lek or any of Jak's shamans, I still couldn't hold up against her if she was determined to win--and she would be." He glanced at the doorway as if expecting to be overheard. "Don't mention your speculations to Dare, though, Max. He never got over Maranna's death or Larn's. If he thought Serralla was behind it, he'd probably do something stupid and risk his life." He grinned deprecatingly. "And he's the only brother I've got. If we can beat Serralla, then we'll tell him."

"Does Dare have any magic?" McAllister asked.

"Not really. He has enough power to tell when it's being used though. He's not immune to it like the royal line is, but he can sense its use. That will help you when the time comes to confront Serralla. I'll ward him before I go, and hope she won't consider it worth breaking the wards. I can't use heavy wards or he won't be able to eat and drink, so she _could_ break them, but it will give him some protection. Then between his knack for recognizing magic and Arran's immunity, you'll have the best protection we can give you."

"If Dare can recognize magic, shouldn't he have noticed it when his wife died?" Max reasoned, upset at discovering a flaw in his theory.

"He wasn't here," explained Arran. "He was on a mission for my father and he returned just in time for the funeral."

"Think about it," suggested McAllister. "And see if the theory fits. If Serralla's been surreptitiously removing her competition, you'll need to be even more careful than you've been so far. The fact that the various nations aren't used to cooperating has helped her. If there'd been more communication, you might have noticed if powerful magicians were dying or disappearing. Maybe you should ask Raban to check the theory with the Council."

"I'll do it." Arran levered himself away from the doorway. "Even if there's only a slight possibility that it's happening, I don't think we should wait." He started to leave then turned back. "I might be gone awhile. Start without me."

"Good lad," said Chel with a faint smile. "There was a time, and not very long ago, when he would have insisted we wait until he got back. He's starting to learn patience."

"I can understand that," Max agreed. "It's not easy. Maybe one day I'll get it right myself."

"Well, we'll start," Chel decided. "Master, you sit down. I would have liked Arran's help, but I can manage without him if I must, and it will tell us what we need to know. I want you to believe that no matter what seems to be happening, none of it will be real. I'm going to ward the room before we start so that if Serralla does decide to meddle, we'll have warning of it. Max, you sit here, beside him, but no matter what happens, don't touch him."

"Right," agreed Max reluctantly. He didn't look quite sure he could obey that stricture if the Master were in jeopardy. He seemed to like Chel, and the Master was pretty sure he trusted him, but he didn't want his mentor hurt, and it was possible that Chel could do it. The magician turned toward the door, making signs with his hands--his fingers were deft and graceful, and McAllister couldn't quite follow the signs. As he watched, Chel's hands suddenly glowed blue, and as the color brightened, Chel said, "Commence," and pointed his hands at the doorway. Blue fire streamed from his fingertips and outlined the door, tracing like wildfire across the opening at the bottom. "Continue," Chel intoned, and the fire ran around the room filling all the joinings where floor and walls met, and where walls touched ceiling, and around the one, deep-set window. After a moment, when the light completed its circuit and gleamed everywhere, it damped down to nothing and there was no trace of it. "Complete," Chel said with satisfaction. The Master suspected that the power was still there, though, protecting them.

"No one can enter now, and no one can use magic on us until the wards are lowered," Chel explained. "Can you sense anything?"

"The air feels strange, like an electrical storm is coming," said Max uneasily. "Like if I touched something, I'd get a shock."

"Max is right," McAllister agreed, glancing around. "I can feel that too."

"Can you see the wards?"

They shook their heads. "Not now," McAllister added. "I could see light when you were waving your hands, but now there's nothing." Max nodded in agreement.

"Well, you aren't magicians then," Chel told them. "Only another magician can see wards once they are set, and then it depends on the type of wards in use and whether they expect them or not. The fact that you sense the power in the air shows you have some immunity. You know something magic is taking place. That's a good beginning. Now, Master, I want you to concentrate on something; don't tell me what it is, but make a picture of it in your mind. Focus on that and make it as clear and vivid as you possibly can."

McAllister selected his daughter Teri. Although he had never seen her face to face, he had seen her picture, and had picked up several good photos of her from the Campbell Agency in New York, where she had worked briefly as a model. He imagined her dark hair and brown eyes, and tried to trace the resemblance he'd seen between her and her mother, Laura Kennedy, with whom he'd had a brief and tempestuous relationship during the Korean War. Teri looked a little like Laura, but she was different too, her own person, her eyes filled with life, and he thought of how much it would mean to him to find her, to get to know her, for the two of them to learn to love each other. Teri was vivid in his mind as if she were standing before him, and it cut into his heart like acid that he might never find her and let her know how much meeting her would mean to him.

He didn't know how long he'd been concentrating before he began to feel a sensation of great danger looming over him, danger neither to himself nor Teri but to Max. Max was in danger. Max was hurt. The bite of the mur-wolf had become infected and he would die without immediate treatment. He had to take Max and rush back to the gateway, to his own world, to the nearest hospital, or Max would surely die.

He thought about it carefully a moment, stretching out with his senses, and all at once he knew it wasn't real. It was like a transparent painting on glass, and the truth was visible behind it, a healthy Max hovering worriedly beside him, holding back with extreme reluctance although he wanted to touch him, to shake him back to awareness. The vision of Teri resurfaced as a talisman, overwhelming the transparent image. He knew with certainty that it was not real. It had only seemed real at first, before he looked at it closely.

Opening his eyes, he turned to Chel with respect. "You do that very well."

"Did you believe it?"

"Only for an instant. Then I could see through it."

"Very good." Chel praised. "Of course you knew I was going to do it. I don't know how you'd react if there was no hint of it ahead of time."

Pain stabbed through him suddenly, sharp and agonizing, focusing on his chest. His heart. It was agonizing. But he felt that same edge of unreality, as if it was happening to someone else. He shook his head to deny it and it vanished as if it had never been.

Fire! The castle was on fire! If he didn't move immediately, he and Max would be killed. He could smell the smoke, feel the rising heat, hear the crackle of the flames. But it wasn't real either, and a moment's concentration banished the sensation. He could still hear the crackle, smell the smoke, but it felt like an afterimage, fading away entirely as he concentrated on Teri again.

"You'll do." Chel's voice cut through his focus. "You were very quick. Once you got the hang of it, it didn't bother you at all. Interesting that the emotional threat would be harder to break than the physical, but it was the first one, and you weren't sure what to expect."

McAllister opened his eyes to find Max peering at him anxiously. "What did he do to you?" Max demanded, bristling with hostility.

"Nothing very bad, Max. I could tell it was all illusion, though."

"But won't Serralla be better at it?"

"She might create more vivid illusions," Chel agreed. "But McAllister will know they _are_ illusions. It's true he may feel a little false pain in the process, but once he knows it's illusion, he can banish it. The important thing, Master, is to make yourself a focus to defend against the threat. You must have chosen a good one. I had my work cut out for me. But at least nothing touched the wards." He looked around the warded room and gestured with his hands. "Cease." For a moment the wards flashed blue, then they popped out of existence, and the electricity vanished from the air. "We don't need them now, and I don't want to waste the power." He looked a little tired. "I don't plan to use any more magic before I leave, and I need to recharge my source."

"Can you do that from a distance, while we're gone?" Max asked. Now that he knew McAllister hadn't been harmed, his suspicion of Chel had eased, and he was prepared to side with him again. He knew the test had been necessary, but he was defensive on the Master's behalf. McAllister smiled at his student fondly, although Max was watching Chel and didn't notice.

"Oh yes," the magician assured him. "Any magician who couldn't would be bound in one place or forced to risk his source being captured."

"But if you just leave it here, what's to stop somebody from getting to it?"

"First of all, no one except possibly his mentor knows what a magician's source is. When a magician adopts his source, he is instructed by an older magician. Raster was my teacher, and he's dead. So no one here knows what my source is, although Dare might suspect. Anything can be a source; a dagger, a statue, a piece of furniture, a jewel. My source is warded carefully. What's more, it's able to strengthen its wards automatically if necessary, but then warding's what I'm best at, that and getting past other people's wards. Even if Abarant falls, my source should be safe, and I can feed it even from a great distance. Don't worry, Max. We won't run out of power unless I have to fight major magical battles."

"Let's pass on that, okay?" Somewhat reassured, Max grinned. "Anyway, how're we supposed to get to Crag Castle?"

"Riding lizards, of course. We don't have time for the slower trip on horseback. It should take us two days at top speed if we don't run into trouble on the way."

"Yeah, but won't the border guards or somebody notice us if we're heading for Crag Castle at top speed?"

"We'll have to find a way to disguise ourselves."

"I was thinking; maybe it wouldn't work, but how about if we dressed like priests? Vesper told us they can pass anyplace."

"True, they can, although even they are more carefully scrutinized in this day and age. But it's a good idea, Max, and a lot easier on me than using a glamour to change our appearance whenever we meet someone."

"What if you're expected to function as priests though?" McAllister asked. "Could that get you in trouble?"

"Not really. It's permitted for anyone to perform the ritual because there aren't always priests available. The words aren't always the same either. If we do put on the red robes, I can give Max a crash course as we go. The ritual's simple on the road, although there's a more formal one for places like this. The bishop performed the ritual this morning. Did either of you go?"

"We both did," replied McAllister, remembering the ritual hall and the candles around the walls, and the rows of nobles and their bodyguards lined up to celebrate, with crowds of townspeople and shopkeepers in the stalls on the lower level. If nothing else, the people of Lorrania had their religion in common. Here at the castle, the effigy was carved of wood and highly polished, a stylized figure of a human being. Dagan, who had been sitting beside McAllister, had explained that each time the ritual was performed the effigy must be carved anew. Abarant Castle had its resident effigy carver whose job was to prepare a new one for each day's ritual, the offering unto the day. "It seemed," McAllister told Chel, "that the bishop was saying specific words by rote."

"He was. But as long as the basics of the offering are made, it doesn't matter what the words are, and each place has its own. That'll act in our favor. If we don't get the words exactly right, nobody will notice."

"Won't we get in trouble for using the ritual when we're not priests?" Max asked.

"No. Dagan or I would have done it on the road anyway."

Max grinned, obviously pleased at the success of his scheme. McAllister was glad he was thinking and planning, but he still didn't care for the danger Max would be letting himself in for. "What about the labyrinth?" he asked, standing up and wandering over to the window to look down on the bustling courtyard below.

"It's dark and it wanders all over the place. There are pitfalls, holes in the floor, traps, dangers."

"Sounds like I'll have to be as sharp as Indiana Jones," Max muttered. McAllister grinned at him, ignoring Chel's perplexity at the reference he didn't understand. "How much can you help me with magic?" Max continued.

"I can't work overt magic too close to Serralla's power or we'll be detected," Chel replied. "But don't look so discouraged, Max. I _can_ use magic passively, maybe even to find the right path through the labyrinth. That much would go undetected amid the general magic that will be in use there. Any more would be like triggering an alarm."

"That's where your ninja skills will come in handy, Max," McAllister reassured him, leaving the window and clapping Max on the shoulder reassuringly. "Remember how you could find your way in the dark and knew where your enemies were when we rescued Laura Crane. It will be like that."

"Only more so," commented Max. "Right?"

"You've learned a lot since then."

"I only hope I've learned enough."

 _So do I, Max_ , thought McAllister. _So do I_.

  


 

*****

 

  


After lunch, Dare came to Max's room, where he and the Master were going over a few practice routine, and knocked on the door. When Max realized who it was, his heart sank. He didn't like Dare, and didn't know if he ever would, but now that he knew about the death of the man's wife and child, it was hard to hold his attitude against him. He knew what it was like to lose close family, and it was something you never really got over, although you learned to live with it. When his mom and brother Jimmy had died in the plane crash, neither he nor his father had handled it well, but at least they'd had each other. Dare's only family was Chel, although Raban was as close to him as a brother. If it turned out that Maranna and Larn had died by enemy magic, could that create a rift between Dare and Chel? Or was Dare here because he resented Max's interference in his memories? Either way, Max was uneasy in the presence of the First Minister.

The Master must have guessed how he felt, because he came to stand at Max's side. "Come in, Dare," he said mildly. "What can we do for you?"

"Arran has been talking to the Council about the death of magicians," Dare said in a flat, expressionless voice. "He said it was your idea." He turned to Max, who had to fight not to draw back at the cold depths of pain in the dark man's eyes.

"It made sense," Max replied, trying to make his voice sound firm and confident, though he suspected he only sounded nervous. "If Serralla had her takeover in mind for a long time, she would have been smart to remove the competition. I hope I'm wrong. I'm sorry."

Dare's lip curled. He didn't seem to want Max's sympathy, but Max had felt the need to say something.

"What you suggest makes sense," Dare conceded. "And I appreciate it." His face was carefully expressionless, but Max knew he was struggling with his feelings. "It has been...difficult to face what happened without understanding why. If your suggestion is true--and I suspect we were fools for not realizing it sooner--then at least I know the reason. Serralla will die." The cold rage in his eyes made Max glad he wasn't Serralla. Even without overt magic, Dare looked like he could sizzle the sorceress across the length and breadth of Lorrania.

McAllister stepped toward Dare. "It's never easy to come to terms with what seems a purposeless death," he offered. "But you can't let revenge take over. We have something concrete to fight, but not in revenge."

Dare's look plainly said he thought the Master a fool for such a suggestion. "You sound like Raban," he pointed out. "He can be too sentimental too."

"I'm not being sentimental," McAllister defended himself. "I'm speaking from experience. I know. I've been pursued by a member of the sect I left. He claims to be following me because I betrayed the ninja and will give up their secrets. I have no intention of giving away any secrets, and he must know that. But Okasa has become obsessed with revenge. It's destroyed his entire life. He has nothing else. You have options, Dare. You have a brother who loves you. You have Raban and a friendship that seldom comes along in a man's life. You have your rank here and a life that could be good if you let it. Help us defeat Serralla, but do it because it is necessary rather than for a personal vendetta."

It was plain that Dare wasn't having any. After six years of bitterness, one lecture from the Master would hardly be enough to change his attitude, but Max wondered if the Master's words might start the First Minister thinking. If the two of them were to work closely together during the confrontation with Serralla, they needed to come to terms with each other. Not for the first time, Max wished that he and McAllister didn't have to separate for their missions. Splitting one's forces was never a good idea.

Dare shook his head. "I'll grant that you mean well," he admitted at last, and Max realized that for him it was a major concession. "But I prefer my vendetta. Why should Serralla get away with murder?"

"I thought the whole idea _was_ to stop her," said Max. "If that's so, does it matter why?"

"It always matters," McAllister said. "But that's something you'll have to learn for yourself."

"Will I? I'll fight my own battles, McAllister," Dare insisted, turning away. "Raban's meeting with the leaders," he continued. "There's a pattern developing. We must have been blind not to see it."

"Until you were ready to talk, you couldn't have seen it," McAllister said. "If Yere fights the Protectorate and Aryla fights the Duchy of Rhun, no one is comparing notes about events within their own boundaries. You knew your wife died in suspicious circumstances, but you couldn't have known it was part of a worldwide plan without more interaction between kingdoms."

"Raban says the only good thing to come out of all this is that the different leaders are finally talking to each other. Raban's always been naive." He turned and walked out, his back held rigid.

McAllister sighed and looked after him sadly. "I wish I could help him."

"He's not ready," Max responded, beginning to suspect for the first time that it might be possible to like Dare one day. "Sometimes you have to reach a certain point before you can come to terms with your problems. I'm not sure even you could have helped me if you'd shown up six months earlier."

"Aren't you?" McAllister grinned.

"Well, I suppose you could, but it would have been a lot harder."

"And just as worthwhile."

"I'm glad you're the one who has to work with Dare. I don't think I could handle it."

"I don't know, Max. You can do a lot more than you think you can. You told me your father has a way with words. I think it must be hereditary."

  


 

*****

 

  


Learning that Max knew how to ride a horse, Dagan arranged for him to take a few quick lessons on the differences between riding horseback and riding a lizard. Max wasn't thrilled with the idea, but if they had to go to Crag Castle on lizards, then he'd have to learn to manage one. Dagan met him in the courtyard, accompanied by Arran, who was grinning, prepared to be amused. At the sight of him, Max bristled. He would have liked to see Arran try a surfboard, or something equally unfamiliar. If the Prince expected him to make a fool of himself, Max was determined to do nothing of the sort even if he had to overcompensate for all he was worth. Arran had taken his first ninja lesson before lunch, and while he had not exactly shone, he had not quite made an idiot of himself either. Max hoped he could do as well his first time on a lizard.

"There you are, Sir Max," Dagan greeted him cheerfully, and Max grinned back, although the sight of the two lizards beyond the Guard sergeant gave his smile a hollow look.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he announced in determination, ignoring the smug grin on Arran's face.

"Good. I'm told you can ride a horse."

"Yeah. I haven't done it for a few months, but I do know how."

"This is a little different," Dagan said unnecessarily. Max saw Arran smirk, and ground his teeth. Someday he'd find a way to one up the Prince. "First of all, you'll note that lizards have six legs rather than four."

Max had noticed that immediately, but now he studied the beasts in more detail. They were shorter and lower to the ground than horses, but their backs were longer. The creatures were a mottled greenish brown in color and their hides looked tough and thick with no fur covering, except for sparsely spaced bristly hair scattered about their bodies and a ridge of it in thicker concentration along the top of their skulls like the bristle on a Roman centurion's helmet. The creatures had rounded snouts and their eyes were set toward the sides of their heads, which made Max wonder about their forward vision.

The saddle was vaguely reminiscent of a western saddle but instead of a pommel, there was a raised ridge in front, and the back was higher too, as if to hold the rider in place. Max was sure he'd need it.

Dagan cuffed the nearest lizard on the side of the head, and instead of responding angrily, the creature seemed to like it, leaning toward the huge sergeant affectionately. "They can be friendly," Dagan said. "This is Rif. He's a placid beast. Their hides are too tough to feel normal petting, so if you want to show affection, you have to put some force into it. Come over here and try."

Max eyed the lizard's huge teeth unhappily. The last thing he wanted to do was belt the animal, but Dagan was waiting, and Arran looked amused, so Max copied Dagan's gesture and was astonished when Rif made a purring sound and rubbed affectionately against him. He wished for a camera so he could show this to people back home. "Now what?" he demanded.

"Now you mount up. With a lizard, it doesn't matter which side you use, but he doesn't stand still very well, so you have to be quick, or you could end up trailing along behind with one foot caught in the stirrup."

Almost ready to mount, Max paused uneasily. "Now you tell me," he complained. Gathering his courage, he took the reins from Dagan and swung himself into the saddle before he could lose his nerve.

It was nothing like sitting on a horse. For one thing, the animal's body was narrower and it was a lot closer to the ground--at least there wasn't quite so far to fall. Dagan had him fasten leather thongs over his thighs to hold himself in place. "Now," he said, "it obeys the reins just like a horse. Let's see you try."

Skeptical, Max picked up the reins, trying to project some of the Master's certainty at the beast, and it must have worked because Rif responded flawlessly, moving just as Max wanted him to. Pleased with himself, Max made a few circles of the courtyard and returned to Dagan, who had mounted the second lizard. "Very good, Max," the big man complimented him. "Now we'll take a couple of runs around the town. I want you to get the feel of high speed movement. I warn you, you'll be sore before we reach Crag Castle. After a couple of good runs, you'll know where you want your saddle padded. let's go."

They maintained a decorous pace through the town, and no one paid any special attention to them, probably because Max was wearing Protectorate clothes and Dagan was in his Guard uniform, which was common here. The rhythm of the ride was comfortable and, as they wound their way through the bustling streets where people of all sorts were engaged in buying and selling or simply strolling about taking the air, Max began to enjoy himself. He was reminded of a Renaissance Faire he'd once attended; a lot of the clothing was similar as were the tents and booths in the marketplace, although the food booths contained unfamiliar and spicy wares, and the clothing, boots and decorations had a slightly alien air to them. The vendors hawked their wares noisily, trying to entice buyers into their stalls, and bargaining went on fast and furious. Max would have liked to stop and stroll through the market, but he knew their schedule was set and there wasn't much time. Once Serralla was beaten, he and the Master might have a chance to visit the bazaar before they returned home.

The people of the market didn't seem too worried about the threat of the Western Empire, Max noticed. Maybe they were simply enjoying what peace they could before their lives changed. Whichever the case, it was a pleasant and peaceful scene, and Max hoped it would stay that way.

Once away from the populated center of the town, Dagan guided them between the brightly colored houses and out through the gates where two Guards monitored the people who came and went, and who called out a cheerful greeting to Dagan. Pulling up beside Max, the sergeant said, "The trick of speed is to let yourself go with it. Don't try to brace yourself or you'll be very uncomfortable. The thongs will hold you in place. In the long run, it's more comfortable than a horse."

"That's easy for you to say," Max muttered, but when Dagan cried, "Now!" Max copied him by lifting his reins and clapping his heels against Rif's sides. The lizard began to run, and the two of them raced off at what seemed an incredible speed. At first he was tempted to get a firm hold on the saddle, but in a few minutes, he discovered the rhythm of the movement and began to relax. After that it was easy, although he suspected Rif was giving him a smooth ride. In a way it was like dirt bike riding; the terrain was rough and they cut through brush at a comparable speed on the straightaway, but it was smoother, and when they topped a hill, they didn't leave the ground. Cautiously, Max began to like it. The slightest movement with the reins would change direction, and he began to experiment, weaving back and forth from the path. He was a long way from becoming an Olympic class equestrian--or whatever the lizard equivalent was--but he had grown up riding, and was comfortable with horses. He realized he could get to like lizards, too. What would happen if he smuggled one back to his own world? He could hide it in the back of the van. Grinning at the idea, he tried to picture McAllister's reaction and shook his head. He'd better not.

They made three circuits of the town, crossing one of the two bridges, and then crossing back below the town. Max noticed that the bridge could be pulled up to allow ships to pass. The river was about as broad as the Missouri where I-80 crossed it back home, and the bridge was really something. Max took a good look at the system of pulleys and weights and levers as they raced past, then turned his eyes to the river itself and wondered if it wasn't the Missouri after all, a parallel universe Missouri. He'd have to look at a map. Even though the place they had crossed the river had not been an analog of western Kansas, it was possible that some geographical features might be the same in both worlds.

"What's the river's name?" he asked Dagan when they had slowed their pace and were proceeding sedately through the town again.

"The Amozary," Dagan replied. "Why?"

"I got to thinking of the geography back home," Max replied, "And I was wondering if the rivers couldn't be the same. Can you show me a map?"

"I can show you one of the Protectorate, but if you want one of all Lorrania, go to Dare. He has an interest in such things."

So Max went looking for Dare and found the First Minister with the Master and Raban, actually studying a map. McAllister looked interested in what he was seeing. Max knew the Master had an interest in almost everything, "Hey, is that a map of Lorrania?" Max asked. "I was just asking Dagan what this place looked like."

"You'll find it interesting," McAllister stood aside so Max could see, and he leaned forward eagerly. It _was_ interesting. Although hand drawn and possibly not exact, it bore something of a resemblance to North America, and Max looked for Abarant, finding it where he had half expected to, somewhere in the vicinity of Omaha. West of there, the plain extended for some distance, but the mountains were closer at hand than they were in Max's world and covered a wider distance. Somewhere in the vicinity of what would have been the Colorado-Wyoming border, the mountains were lower and several passes were clearly indicated. Tracing further west, Max discovered that Crag Castle was a little north of Los Angeles. He was supposed to get from Omaha to L.A. in two days riding lizards? He wouldn't be able to walk once he got there.

In the other direction the landscape was different. Some of the Great Lakes were clearly marked, but below them, through what would have back home been Michigan, Indiana, Ohio and further south to the Gulf, high mountains rose with a blank area beyond them that indicated unknown territory. The mountain range was labeled "Barrier Mountains."

"What's past there?" Max asked, pointing.

"We don't know," Raban replied. "We know people live there because they find their way to this side occasionally, but the people we've encountered have been primitive and savage. Sometimes a raider band will come down out of the mountains and terrorize a foothills village in Allinos or Thoth, but they're easily beaten off. They're not the threat Serralla is."

"But don't you want to explore?" Max demanded. "Aren't you curious about it?"

"Max," McAllister cut in patiently, "if you had to face a threat like Serralla, do you think you'd have time for exploration?"

"Well, maybe not," he conceded, peering at the map again. It went north into the area that would have been Canada, then it faded again and was marked 'frozen wastes'. South it went almost to the Panama Canal in Max's world. Max didn't ask what was further south. Maybe the sea-goers on the coasts had explored further, but this wasn't the time to ask. Curious in spite of himself, Max resolved to take a look at books of geography and history, if there was time, before he returned to his own world.

Now Raban called his attention to the routes to Crag Castle, and he concentrated on memorizing them as best he could. They would head west across the southern part of the Protectorate into Lahana, moving westward, crossing a portion of Lothana, its sister state, before they reached the mountains and the passes to the Western side of the Stone Mountains. The plains tribesmen were present at the Council, all the more determined to join because parts of their territories had been swallowed up by the advancing Empire, and it was likely that the tribesmen would leave them alone. Once across the mountains, they would journey through a corner of Rhun, a nation that rested uneasily under Imperial rule, to Calivera, Erly's first ally, and down the coast into Erly itself and Crag castle. Chel and Dagan would know the way, Max supposed, and he wondered how much traveling any of them had done, then he remembered that there used to be annual meetings at Crag Castle when the old Duke of Erly was still alive.

Raban and Dare left them to return to the Council meeting, and the Master explained that he had met with the Council again while Max was taking lizard lessons. "They seem to accept me as the Defender," he confessed. "It's a strange feeling, Max. There are a couple of minor magicians in the Council, and one or two of them have brought their court wizards with them. They decided to see if I was really immune to magic. It's a good thing we had our workout with Chel this morning or I wouldn't have been prepared. "

"You--not prepared?" Max asked with mock surprise. "Come on, you're always prepared."

"You make me sound like a boy scout." McAllister grinned at him as they left the room, heading for their own quarters.

"Well, you know what I mean."

He fell silent then as a voice shouted, "Max!" and they turned to find Raban's daughter Sharna running toward them, holding Henry in her hands. The girl was twelve, and like her father and older brother, she had dark curly hair, but she wore it long, pulled back with a braided leather thong. She was still young enough to be a tomboy, and right now she wore the traditionally male tunic and tight pants. The inevitable Guard was behind her, a tall, dark skinned man Max hadn't seen before.

"Hi, Sharna," Max greeted her, coming to a stop and taking Henry as she held out the hamster. "Having problems?"

She drew herself up with an almost adult dignity. "No. Henry likes me. But he was missing you, and I thought you might want to see him." Her eyes lifted to his, and he realized with surprise that she wore the look of a teenager seeing her favorite rock star for the first time. Sharna had a crush on him. He was inclined to preen himself for a moment, but he managed to restrain himself, feeling the Master's silent amusement.

"Thanks, Sharna," he said casually as if she were a contemporary. "I'm used to Henry always being there. I keep reaching for him in my pocket and then remembering I don't have him. Is he giving you any trouble?"

"No, he's being good. He eats out of my hand." Her eyes shone.

Pets were a rare luxury in the Protectorate and in all Lorrania, Max had learned. There were dogs but they had purposes--tracking game, warning of attack--and people rarely made pets out of them. Some of them were scarcely domesticated. He had seen a cat or two wandering around Abarant Castle, but when he asked, he found that their purpose was simply to catch rodents. They were definitely not pets. There had been a period when magicians had used animals as their power sources, although that was now a forbidden practice. Invested with so much power, the animals sometimes became uncontrollable, and there were strange legends about talking animals that no one admitted to believing but which made everybody uneasy. Max guessed that a powerful enough magician might be able to talk through a power source, perhaps even using the animal's eyes for spying purposes. He could understand why the thought of an apparently sentient cat would frighten these people. He didn't like the idea himself.

He played with Henry for a few minutes, asking Sharna questions before the Guard announced that it was time for her lessons. She grimaced but didn't make a scene. He returned Henry to her and promised to see her again in the morning before he left. When she went off smiling, Max was glad he'd been nice to her.

When they reached the Master's room, McAllister drew him in and closed the door. "Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?" Max looked at him curiously.

"Something's bothering you. I may not be a magician, but you're broadcasting tension all over the place."

"Yeah, I guess I am," Max confessed. He'd thought he'd kept it bottled up pretty nicely, but this was the Master, who could almost read minds. Knowing him, he probably could. "Sure I'm scared about taking off for Crag Castle. Who wouldn't be? It's not that, at least I don't think so. What really bothers me is leaving you to face Serralla on your own. I know you could feel those illusions. Sure you could tell they were fake when you thought of it, but you could still feel it. Suppose she makes it so real that you have a heart attack or something? Suppose she's so much more powerful than Chel that she can take over your mind?"

"I don't think she can do that," McAllister said. "When she was in contact with me, I could feel the limits of her power."

"Yeah, but maybe that's what she _wanted_ you to think," Max insisted. "I just don't like the thought of splitting up the team."

"Sometimes there's no choice," McAllister told him. He put his hands on Max's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "I don't like the idea of you going off to Crag Castle without me either. That labyrinth sounds nasty. I know you've learned a lot, but you've only been training for a couple of years. I've been a ninja for over thirty years and I still don't like this. We have to trust each other, Max. We'll do the best we can."

"Yeah, but this is a lot more--more real than usual." He chuckled suddenly. "Crazy, isn't it? To say all this is real? Maybe it only seems that way because our society's so regimented, almost tame. We've been up against some tough characters, but usually we knew we could beat them. This time, I'm not so sure."

"If you want guarantees, Max, you've come to the wrong person. We're here and we've decided to help Raban and the Protectorate. I don't like the idea of backing out now, but if that's what you want we can talk about it."

"I don't want to quit, and I know you can't give me any guarantees," Max defended himself. "I wish it was all over and we knew how it came out, but we don't, and we've got to get through it. I just wish I could trust Dare to look after you."

"You think I need looking after?" McAllister cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, you and the U.S. Marines," Max returned. "But that's a helluva person to have at your back. Now he thinks Serralla killed his wife, he'll be gung ho for revenge and forget about being a team player if he ever knew how. Arran's too much like me. He's reckless. When we're fighting the bad guys, I watch myself because I don't want anything to happen to you. I'll back you, even when holding back goes against the grain. But I don't know about him."

"He's fighting for his world, Max. He'll do all right. There's good stuff in him." He grinned suddenly and let Max go. "I can always pick 'em," he commented. "I chose _you_ for my student, didn't I?"

"Yeah, after I forced you to."

McAllister shook his head in amusement. "You didn't force me into anything I didn't want to do, Max. Maybe I was hesitant at first, but I'd just come from Japan, where my students had returned to the old ways. The last thing I wanted was to take that kind of chance again. But you didn't give up, and I realized you weren't like them. You haven't let me down. Sometimes you've been so aggravating I wanted to shake some sense into you, but it's always turned out for the best. You've come on a lot since then, and it's not all my doing. I'm proud of you. I'll be proud of you however you handle Crag Castle. I've only got one order for you."

"Yeah, what?" Max asked, as elated as if he'd just been given the Medal of Honor.

"Be sure to come back."

Max smiled. "You got it, Kemo Sabe," he agreed. "In and out, no side trips. I wonder how Chel is in a fight?"

"He's got magic."

"Yeah, but not like Serralla's."

"Don't let her scare you, Max. Sure she's powerful, but she isn't invulnerable. Besides, I'm the one who's stuck with her."

"Are _you_ scared?" Max asked hesitantly.

"You better believe it." McAllister caught his eye. "The thing is to make the fear work for you and not against you. I've seen you manage that. I've told you before that it's okay to be scared."

"I'm glad of that," Max replied, feeling much better. "Because otherwise I'd be in big trouble."

  


 

*****

 

  


The next morning, Max and Chel departed for Crag Castle. They set off early, but an amazing number of people had risen to see them off. McAllister was there, of course; he had wanted to dress Max's arm one more time, and he was pleased because the wound was healing cleanly, and Max didn't seem hampered by it. That was good. Chel and Dagan could keep an eye on it during their journey, but he shouldn't have any more trouble with it.

It was dawn when the group gathered in the courtyard to see the wayfarers off, and the eastern sky was touched with pink and gold across the Amozary River beyond the bluffs. The air was cool and sweet, tinged with the distinctive but not unpleasant odor of lizards and the acrid sting of smoke from the fires that were being extinguished now that dawn was here. Guard troops massed about the doorways, guarding the members of the Protector's family. It was too early for shops to be open, but those shopkeepers who kept their businesses within the castle walls knew something was going on for they peered out their shop doors keeping watch, no doubt prepared to tell their town cousins everything that happened here this morning.

The delegates to Raban's peace conference were present too in great numbers. It looked to McAllister that everyone of them was here accompanied by their bodyguards and aides, all of them in full, traditional regalia, as they had been the night before last at the formal dinner. Thiel of Yere went out of her way to greet Max, and whatever she said to him caused a tinge of red to rise to his cheeks. From what he'd seen of Thiel, McAllister realized that she was a lusty woman who took her pleasures where she could find them; perhaps she'd invited Max to share her bed. Max could cope handily with such invitations from women his own age, but Thiel was a well preserved forty-five and Max was at a loss.

Smiling a little, McAllister went to his rescue. "Good morning, Thiel," he greeted her.

Her eyes zeroed in on him with considerable interest, and he realized that she was now planning her strategy to lure _him_ into her bed. Max, after all, would be heading for Crag Castle, but he would still be here. He found her frankness refreshing and wouldn't have been hostile to the idea but for the thought that the other delegates might resent any personal attention shown to one of their numbers, so he met her inviting look with a bland smile. "I'd like to say good-bye to Max now," he told her. Whether she read a promise in his look or not, she withdrew with a gracious smile, and McAllister and his pupil were face to face, and for the moment alone.

Max had donned the red robe of a priest, and he looked uncomfortable with it. Packed on his saddle was the large knife and wooden framework to enclose the sacrifice, a typical priest's tools. The large knife was either to carve the effigy or to harvest grass or twigs to make it with, but in this case, it was extra sharp and could be used as a weapon if need be. Max also carried a full complement of ninja weapons, although the sword that hung at his belt was a Protectorate weapon, somewhat similar in design to the ninja one, although slightly shorter. Max had found it comfortable in his hand and taken a fancy to it, and McAllister had only brought one sword with him anyway, which Max insisted he keep. "You never know when you'll need it, old fella," he had insisted. "I've got this, and Dagan's good with weapons too."

McAllister wanted his pupil to have every advantage and he was sorry now that he hadn't insisted on pressing the ninja sword on Max. It was too late to change that, so he only said, "Have you got everything you need?"

"Well, I could do with an M-16," Max conceded with a nervous grin. "But short of that, I'm okay."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. Well, as sure as I can be."

"You can still take my sword."

"'preciate it, but I'll make do. Dagan and I had a workout yesterday. He says I'll get by."

The large Guard appeared at Max's shoulder. "He's being modest, Defender. I'll gladly fight at his side. And I'll take good care of him for you."

"Hey," Max objected, "I'm not a kid here. I can take care of myself."

"Never shun backup, Max," McAllister told him. "You three will need all the help you can get. Will you be able to avoid Serralla's army?"

"We should," Chel replied, coming up to join them. Like Max, he was dressed in the priest's red cloak, and his lizard also held priest's tools. They had spent some time going over the facets of the ritual the previous evening and both of them were as well prepared as they could be. "I've been tracking the army magically," Chel continued. "They're down near Amoxa now, and our passes are further north. I can spin a little search magic without alerting anyone, and I've got the army fixed in my mind so I know what to expect and how to find it. Besides, I don't think the army could move fast enough to cover the passes through to Rhun before we can reach them. Once we're in Calivera, it's not that far to Erly."

It wouldn't be, not on lizardback, McAllister realized. As long as they could maintain that pace, they'd be going faster than the speed limit on any interstate highway in America, and they'd make good time to the coast--as long as they didn't run into trouble.

Dare glided up silently, and Chel grinned at his brother. "I'll give 'em a few good licks for you, brother mine," he promised.

"See that you do." Dare's voice was controlled, but there was concern for his brother in his eyes and McAllister felt better at the sight of it. He had suspected that Dare's whole being was caught up in the need to defeat Serralla, but the Master didn't feel as much driven revenge there as he had feared. Dare had passed the impetus that moved him, and that was a good sign, even if it was only a temporary interruption.

Chel's eyes warmed as if he had realized that too, and he flung his arms around Dare in an affectionate embrace. "You stay out of trouble here, brother mine," he cautioned. "I won't be able to magick you long distance."

For a moment, Dare didn't react to Chel's embrace, then his arms came around his brother and he held him close. "Your task will be the more dangerous, brother mine," he said in a voice that failed to disguise the emotion in it. "If you do not return safely, I'll kill you."

"If you don't stay safe here, I'll kill _you_ ," Chel replied with a shaky laugh.

Dare freed himself and strode away without looking back.

Chel looked after him sorrowfully, then he noticed the surprised expression on Max's face. "My brother has trouble admitting his feelings," he said, and after that masterpiece of understatement, he busied himself with his saddlebags as if nothing were more important.

Max shot a startled and questioning look at the Master, who said sententiously, "Things are not always what they seem, Max."

"Yeah, but..." His voice trailed off and he stared after Dare, obviously revising yet again his opinion of the First Minister.

Raban came through the crowd then with Arran at his shoulder and half a dozen Guards behind him. He offered Max his hand, Earth-fashion. "Go carefully, Acolyte."

"Yeah, I hope I can," Max replied. "I'll give it my best shot anyway. Besides, I've got Chel and Dagan with me, and I trust them."

"I wish you and the Defender need not be parted," Raban told him, resting his hand on Max's shoulder. "I know how it is to worry about comrades in dangerous situations. Serralla's got her eye on us though. You should be safe from her on the journey. With Arran and Dare with McAllister, he'll be as safe as we can make him."

McAllister could tell from the look on Max's face that his young protegé didn't think that was good enough, but at least Max had learned enough tact not to say so. Instead he cast a worried look at the Master, but the anguish was only visible in his eyes. Outwardly he looked calm and controlled. Yes, Max was doing much better.

"Good luck, Max." McAllister took Max's arm. "I know you can do it. Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"You must believe in giving your students a helluva lot of leeway," Max returned, dredging up a smile, although it didn't take very well. "I can't imagine what _you_ wouldn't do in a crisis."

"Just be careful. Stay away from bar windows." Growing serious, McAllister said, "I'm sorry we can't be together for this. If--"

"I'll be back before you know it," Max cut in quickly, unprepared for an emotional parting. He glanced after Dare, and McAllister could see determination forming on Max's face--if Dare could do it, so could he. He lunged forward awkwardly and hugged his mentor, and McAllister pulled him close. He knew as well as Max did that they might never see each other again. Glib words might suit a temporary crisis in their own world, but here, among strangers, with more than their lives at stake, they were both dead serious. "I hate this," Max muttered. "But I know we've gotta do it. You take care of yourself, old fella. I'm with Dare. You let anything happen to you. I'll kill you."

McAllister stepped back reluctantly. It was like sending his son to death, but there was nothing else for it. It had to be.

They looked at each other a long moment. Then Max sprinted over and vaulted into the saddle. "Well, come on," he urged Chel and Dagan in a deliberately harsh voice. "Let's get out of here."

McAllister stood with Raban and his son at his side and watched until Max was out of sight, then the three of them returned to the castle. They had a confrontation to prepare for.

  


 

*****

 

  


"Did anybody tell you about Brin?" Dagan asked when they stopped at midmorning to heat the water for tea. It wasn't really tea, Max knew, but it was close enough for the Lorranian word to translate as tea in Max's head.

"No, who's Brin?" he asked. Come to think of it, he'd heard the name in passing, but he didn't know anything about the man.

"He's Serralla's right hand man," Chel explained. "Something of a minor magician, although not up to my standards, but better known as a fighting man. Excellent swordsman, and he's one of the few that likes these new muskets. But he's best at hand to hand combat. He's not a ninja, Max, but if he shows up, he'll give you a good fight--although not necessarily a fair one."

"Great," muttered Max without enthusiasm. "Why won't he be with the army?"

"He'll be with Serralla, wherever she is. And she won't be with the army. She can magick her orders to her commanders and she has a battle room."

"What's that?"

"It's a place with a model of the battleground. She adapts it magically to suit the given location--and once that's done, she can use her magic to alter the outcome. She can create illusions that are close enough to reality to be believed. You see, Max, if she suddenly produced a tidal wave inland, people would be so surprised at the anomaly that they'd be able to see through it. But if the battle was in a desert, she could create a false sandstorm and there would be no reason to doubt its reality. One of the tricks to being an effective magician is to make your illusion as close to reality as possible. If you're as powerful as Serralla, you can be a little more inventive, but there are still limits. Serralla knows them and works around them. The point is, she doesn't have to go into battle with the army. She'll be at Crag Castle and Brin will be there too. He's not officially her consort, and she tends to scorn him, but she uses his skills. If she gets wind of us, she'll have Brin fight you. If she knows the Acolyte is an outworlder, she won't try to use her magic on you. Dagan will have to wait outside, so she won't bother with him, but she might attack me magically. I'll have to concentrate on my wards. I've got an automatic link with Dare, so if she attacks me, he'll know. If that happens, he'll get the Master to confront her. But it's possible that will happen before we get there."

"But we wouldn't have time to get her power source before the Master takes her on," Max objected, taking the mug of tea Dagan offered and sipping it carefully--Protectorate tea was usually hot and bitter.

"Well, Max, that's always been possible," Chel replied. "But he's the Defender. Power source or no, he should be able to stand against her."

"Yeah, but what if everybody's wrong?" Max demanded, trying to hide his grimace at the taste of the tea. "What if he and I aren't who you were looking for after all?"

"You have to be," Dagan insisted with simple faith. "Else Arran would not have found you. It was meant that he find you. Do you think he could have crossed between worlds for a mistake?"

Max thought it entirely possible, but maybe there was a kind of fate directing their actions. He didn't know. The Master did fit the prophecy after all. Max only hoped the prophecy was right, because it indicated that the defender could vanquish Serralla. If not, what would be the point?

Of course being able to defeat Serralla was not the same thing as actually beating her, but Max had confidence in the Master. If anyone could do this, he could. He hoped everyone was right and they weren't here by mistake. It dawned on him that he was more scared for his mentor's sake than for his own. Sneaking into dark and dangerous places was nothing new to him, and he had a magician with him to help him with anything outside his realm of experience. But the Master was dealing with something horribly foreign to him. Although he'd been able to see through Chel's illusions, Chel wasn't quite in Serralla's league.

 _Oh well_ , thought Max fatalistically as he sipped the bitter tea, _we're here and we're the ones. We'll make it. At least Okasa's not here. We've got enough trouble without him_.

  


 

*****

 

  


The Master was worried about Max, too, but he knew that Max was well trained and that he would do his best. He had watched his young pupil turn from a rash and hot-headed young man to someone who could control his passions--at least most of the time. Max might still let his temper get away from him, but not as often as before, and there were even times when he thought before he acted. Remarkable. Looking at Arran, who was pacing impatiently about the room, McAllister realized that Max had become more controlled than the Prince was, although the two of them could egg each other on and lose their maturity at the drop of a hat. It was a good thing they weren't together in this crisis. This way, cooler heads could watch over each of them. Dagan would be good for Max. The Guard's simplicity and strength would balance Max's quick temper and Max would stimulate Dagan. Chel would help both of them, the magician's quicksilver mind alert to danger. McAllister could detach a portion of his mind to stand guard, alert for crisis, and he had tried to teach that to Max, but so far, Max could only do it consciously. Between the three of them, they should be able to ward themselves against danger on the journey.

As for his own team, McAllister looked at the pacing Arran, who had asked every half hour or so if he thought the others were getting on all right, and past him to Dare, who was sprawled elegantly in a huge carved chair, his face inscrutable. McAllister knew he was worried for his brother and the mission, but he wouldn't admit it, and when Arran had tried to force such an admission from him, he had turned to the Prince with scorn and said, "If you can tell me how my concern would make a difference one way or the other, I will admit to anything you choose, my Prince." After that, Arran had left him alone, contenting himself with flinging intolerant glances at Dare whenever he thought the First Minister wasn't watching. From the bitter amusement on his face, Dare was all too aware of it and of the Prince's opinion of him, but he did not seem to care. He didn't have the energy to spare to worry about Arran's opinion, although by all accounts it must have mattered once.

Raban entered abruptly, and Dare, whose face didn't change at all except to show curiosity, sat up a little straighter. McAllister didn't fully understand the bond that tied the two men, but he knew that Dare permitted Raban closer to him than anyone, even his brother, and that while he never spoke of it, his feeling for the Protector was the one bit of warmth he permitted himself. It was true that Raban was a compelling man and that he obviously agonized over his First Minister's dark and brooding nature but, for himself, although Dare mocked him and pretended to hold him at a distance, he felt the difficulty was worth it. McAllister wondered if Dare would have survived as a complete human being without Raban's love, and doubted it.

Dare rose with the elegance of a panther preparing for the kill. "Don't tell me. Your council has finally seen the light of your wisdom." The blatant skepticism in his voice was almost, but not quite insulting.

"It seems they have," Raban replied with a brilliant grin. "We've reached an agreement anyway. Our armies will unite. It won't be easy, but at least we have a chance now."

"You're an optimist, my friend," Dare retorted. "I can't wait to see what happens when we try to merge the armies. Men who tried to kill each other as recently as three seasons ago are now expected to fight side by side. It won't work."

"I never expected it to be easy." For the first time, Raban sounded angry in the presence of his friend. "But borrowing trouble won't help. I expect you to work with the emissaries from the various nations and I expect you to do it without foretelling doom every other word. Do you think you can manage that?"

"As my Protector commands," Dare returned smoothly, but not as if he resented the harshness in his liege lord's voice. If Raban had been unable to stand up for himself, Dare would never have respected him.

"Wait a minute, Father." Arran had stopped his pacing and was staring intently at Raban. "I thought Dare was to help with the Defender. Isn't that what you've been planning? His awareness of magic is going to be invaluable to us, but not if he's meeting with Councillors."

"I know that, son. But he can do both. If the Defender needs him, he will be here, but the rest of the time, he can meet with the different delegations. I've got to coordinate the armies. I can't sit back and do nothing. We've got ten bodies of men just waiting within our borders and they can't stay there indefinitely; neither can we bring them here. We don't have enough food for them. So I'm going to be traveling with a few of the leaders and my Guard contingent to speak to the armies. I'll leave early tomorrow morning. I should be gone for three days. It may be that the confrontation with Serralla will be over before I return. I don't know. But I can't wait. I'd like you with me, both of you, but we'll have to wait until I return for that. We have to fulfill the prophecy first. In the meantime, Dare, you can start talking to the Councillors. You know my wishes." He grinned suddenly. "If the prophecy is valid, we may be fighting anyway. I don't know what we'll do with all these troops massed on our borders."

"Fight, of course," Arran replied promptly. "Protectorate troops are the best in Lorrania."

Dare shook his head. "Your son needs restraint," he told Raban disgustedly.

Arran glared him, then he broke down and smiled. "Couldn't you wait until we confront Serralla?" he asked his father. "I'd like to go with you."

"No, there's too much to do to wait, and I'll lose face with the other leaders if I stall them any longer. Now they've agreed to terms, they expect action. The longer I wait, the more likely they are to begin quarreling among themselves. I'll make the rounds. It'll do the guard some good to practice on lizardback."

"How many men will you take with you?" Arran asked.

"Twenty. That was what the others all agreed on. Each of them brought twenty men to council. so I'll take twenty on my tour of inspection. Arran, you'll look after your sister for me?"

"If anyone can. I'm surprised she didn't sneak away after Max. She took to him." He sounded slightly jealous, and McAllister chuckled softly.

"She also took the responsibility for Henry's care. I've yet to see a member of your family shirk his responsibilities."

Arran brightened, while Dare made a disgusted sound under his breath.

"When will you leave?" Dare asked Raban.

"At dawn."

"I will speak to your Guard," Dare announced and took himself away in a hurry.

"He's worried about me." Raban told the Master. "I hope you haven't found him too trying. I know he's a hard man to deal with, but it's worth the effort."

"I believe it," McAllister said. "He doesn't let his feelings show but, if someone looks carefully, there's a different man underneath.

Arran made a disagreeable sound. "I don't see why we should always have to be careful of his feelings," he complained. "He makes no concessions for us."

"He can't," the Master intervened, hoping to prevent an argument between father and son, since he felt that Raban was holding back with a considerable effort. "You can't penalize him for something he's unable to do. If we beat Serralla, he might change. We just have to be patient until then."

"Easy for you to say. You can go home afterwards."

"We hope."

Arran had the grace to look ashamed of himself. "You always have answers," he muttered in a voice that was only slightly surly.

McAllister clapped him on the shoulder. "I only wish I did, Arran," he replied seriously. "I only wish I did."

  


 

*****

 

  


"Stop! Pull up!" Chel shouted suddenly as the three of them raced their lizards toward the West Coast. They had reached the first of the mountain passes and the trail was narrow, but the sure-footed lizards had not hesitated or stumbled as they sped on. But now Chel had galloped along side of Max and was directing him to slow down. Max reined in as the lizard dropped to a slower gait. Max had experienced lizard deceleration enough by now to get a good grip on the front of the saddle; he'd been in danger of being pitched over the creature's head more than once already and he didn't want to risk it again. He could hear Dagan restraining his beast behind them.

"In here," Chel guided, leading the way into a small, rocky canyon off the main trail.

Max frowned as he realized there was no way out; it was a dead end. "Hey," he protested, "What're we going in here for?"

Dagan clapped a hand on Max's shoulder as he pulled abreast of him "Wait and see," he urged.

Chel dismounted and dropped the reins to the ground. The lizard shifted on four of its legs as Chel left it, but it stayed in place. Chel approached the entrance to the box canyon and glowered at the trail. "Trouble," he said. "I think Serralla has guessed we'd come this way. There's a troop approaching."

"How big a troop?" Max asked, shrugging fatalistically. He should have guessed this would happen.

"Maybe fifty men."

"So what do we do now? We're not that well armed, to take on fifty men."

"We do what I do best," Chel replied with a cheeky grin. "We hide. Stand back, Max, and let me ward us. They won't even know there's a canyon here. Just watch." He closed his eyes a moment, gathering his power, then he raised his hands and blue fire lit them. "Commence," he intoned and the fire ran across the entrance to the canyon. Max watched it weave a complex pattern across the opening while Chel murmured, "Continue," then the magician lowered his hands. "Complete." The blue fire vanished.

It was one thing to trust in wards in Abarant Castle, surrounded by Protectorate Guards, but out here about to face fifty of Serralla's soldiers, it was hard for Max to put his trust in magic. He slipped a hand inside his shirt and withdrew a shuriken, although he knew he didn't have enough weapons to take fifty troopers. Beside him, Dagan dismounted and began to prepare a campfire as if he were in the midst of a Protectorate army. "Tea, Max?" he asked calmly.

"Tea! How can you think of tea at a time like this?"

"Ale then?" Dagan grinned. "Don't worry, Max. Chel's wards really work. All they'll see when they pass is more of the rockface. They won't even guess there's an entrance here. I guarantee it. Serralla's not with them, and no one else in Lorrania can get past Chel's wards. I doubt if even she could."

"I'm just not used to magic, okay?" Max defended his doubt. "We don't have it back home. I know the Master's good at being invisible; I believe he could hide from them. I just don't see how three men and three lizards can."

"Then watch, and you'll get your first practical demonstration. I trust Chel. He knows what he's doing." The big Guard produced a flask from inside his tunic. "The Defender likes this. Want some?" It was grenberry juice, and Max preferred it to Lorranian tea, although he liked the ale better. He took a swallow and returned the flask before joining Chel this side of the wards.

Chel put out a hand to stop Max from going too far. "Wait there, Max. The last thing I want to do is run up against an Imperial army, or even part of one. I'm a practicing coward as well as a magician."

"You could have fooled me."

"Why d'you think I work so hard on warding, then?" Chel asked. "It's the safest way to protect yourself in the world. I can hide from anyone, any time."

"Yeah, and you said you couldn't use it much when we got close to Crag Castle. Breaking into Serralla's palace is hardly the act of a coward."

"I know." Chel made a wry face. "I keep telling myself I have no choice. It doesn't really help, but it's worth trying. Wait now. We'll hear them coming any minute."

"How'd you know they were coming in the first place?"

"Magic. I'm open to other presences. This time they are very loud. I think they've got a magician with them."

"Won't that make it risky?"

"No. These are the best wards in the world. Only a genius can see past them, and even a genius couldn't get through them. I don't think Serralla's got any geniuses running around with a mere fifty troopers."

Max heard the approaching band then, the distinctive thudding of lizard feet, different from the sound of shod hooves but faster, and he craned his neck to see the first of the outriders racing up the trail toward them. It was hard for him to put his faith in wards that he couldn't even see. Since the army was visible to him, he felt like he should be visible to them. Only his training with the Master enabled him to believe that what Chel suggested was possible, and although he braced himself, weapon ready, he held his ground.

The troop came into view, leather clad men and women with close fitting helmets not unlike those worn by aviators in World War I. Max thought incongruously of Snoopy and the Red Baron and smiled in spite of himself. Their leather creaked with the movement of the lizards, and their weapons rattled. Each carried a sword in a scabbard, and some of them carried lances, maces, or bows and arrows. The officer, distinctive by lizard-leather armor dyed green rather than the yellow of the other soldiers, had what looked like a clumsy gun. Max remembered that muskets had been mentioned and wondered if they were a normal advance for these people or whether someone had been slyly importing technology from his dimension. He tried to recall when muskets and other guns had appeared in his world and found his history was woefully inadequate. He remembered _The Three Musketeers_ but he couldn't recall when the book was set. The Seventeenth Century? Anyway, these people hadn't got that far yet. But maybe there were different rules in different dimensions. He knew he didn't want to risk being shot. Advanced or not, it could prove dangerous if not fatal.

The troop reined in nearby, and one man, leather clad like the soldiers but carrying no weapons, turned to the officer. "They should be close, m'lord," he insisted. "I sensed them not so long ago, and m'lady sent me a warning that they would take this route." The accent was strange and slurred, but he could understand. He vaguely wondered if all the people in Lorrania spoke the same tongue since the members of Raban's Council had, and rationalized that with rapid lizard transportation and interaction between peoples it seemed likely that there would be a common language. But this man's accent was the strangest yet as if he couldn't be bothered to enunciate properly. Max wondered if he were from Erly.

The officer's voice was more precise. "I don't see anybody, Rudiz." He raised his voice. "Anybody see anything?" There was a general chorus of no's but the soldiers sounded only half convinced as if they didn't want to alienate the magician. The officer ignored the halfhearted response and turned to Rudiz again. "You see. Nobody here."

"They could be warding."

Max held his breath, fearing that even that slight sound would be heard through the wards, but Rudiz didn't even glance in their direction. The captain did, pointedly scanning his surroundings, and, to Max, it felt as if he was being stared at, but the captain didn't appear to see him. He relaxed fractionally. Maybe there really was something to warding. He hoped so.

"You're supposed to be able to tell when magic's in use," the captain accused the magician.

"And so I can, Dragoris. Sometimes. Our lady works so much that I sense her all the time and it blinds me to lesser magic."

"Then what bloody good are you? Power! I don't like a magician riding with my band. It makes them uneasy." He glanced around as if inviting the soldiers to confirm his words. There was a general murmur among the men and woman of his command, although it could have meant anything. Dragoris was satisfied with it, though, and turned back to Rudiz. "You see?"

"I see a short-sighted fool!" Rudiz spat, the sudden intensity of his voice sharpening it to almost Protectorate precision. "I also see disloyalty to the Lady. How do you think she rules? With magic! Speak against magic and you speak against _her_."

"You compare yourself to our Empress?" Dragoris sounded incredulous. "You're a village magician pretending to work your puny spells on a higher level. A _real_ magician would have found the intruders by now. Give me a real magician, one I can count on, and I'll welcome him gladly." Max thought he was back-peddling like mad for fear of risking his liege lady's enmity, but Rudiz wasn't placated.

"Have your men look around," he suggested. "Even if the enemy is concealed magically, there may be some trace of him hereabouts."

Max sucked in his breath in alarm, but Chel smiled reassuringly. Leaning closer to Max, he whispered, the sound lost in the noise of the armed band, "Don't worry. The ground's too hard to show traces. I checked."

"I hope you're right," breathed Max. "Could they hear us if we were louder?"

"They might if we shouted, but they still couldn't see us, and the wards act like the substance they mimic. If anyone tried to walk through, it would be like walking into a stone wall."

Three of the band dismounted, a tall lanky woman, a young, rather attractive girl with long fair hair escaping from beneath her Snoopy helmet, and a large man, stocky and powerful looking. They scouted around with obvious skill, but they found nothing. Finally the girl shook her head. "Sorry, Cap," she called out, swinging up on her lizard again. "Can't tell if anybody's been here or not. Bare rock doesn't leave decent traces."

"Then we go on. We haven't passed them yet. They may not have gotten this far."

"Maybe they're coming horseback," suggested the burly trooper as he remounted.

"Maybe, but not practical," Dragoris dissented. "If they're trying to fulfill that blasted prophecy, they'd want to get here as fast as they could. The Lady says those Protectorate weaklings have found the Defender. He'll be on his way here now, most likely. She'll best him, of course, but think how foolish Raban would look if we did it for her. So much for their mighty Defender, defeated by mere mortals--and a village magician, of course," he added with a scornful look at Ruiz.

"I may be a 'village magician'," Rudiz muttered, "but I've more power than you do. Don't cross me, Dragoris, not unless you'd like to spend the rest of your life as a mur-wolf or something equally un-human."

"You don't have the power," Dragoris blustered. "And m'lady commanded me to bring you, not the reverse. So watch your tongue, little magician, and don't forget you can die as easily as any ordinary mortal."

Rudiz growled at the commander and reined his lizard around hard, starting down the trail in the direction of the plains nations. Dragoris muttered a harsh curse and followed him, gesturing his band forward with a hand signal. As quickly as they had arrived, the troop was gone, racing down the trail in the direction of Lothana, Lahana, and the Protectorate.

"Wait a bit," Chel urged as Dagan approached. "We'll make sure they're gone. Once they're far enough East, we can outrun them." He turned to Max. "You see, Max, I'm a cautious man." Max wondered if Dragoris had held his troop just out of sight waiting for them to emerge from hiding, but after twenty minutes, Chel smiled. "They've gone," he said. "I can feel Rudiz a little. Charming fellow, Rudiz. He's from Amoxa, down by Techta and south of the Confederacy. Looks like he's sworn his allegiance to Serralla now. I'm not surprised. He was always out for what he could get. I met him six years ago at the Incoming at Crag Castle before Trange, the old Duke of Erly, died. Rudiz hasn't improved one jot since then. Course, dealing with bigots like Dragoris doesn't help. We'd have been in a lot more danger if the two of them could work together. Dragoris knows what he's up to when it comes to fighting. But throw in a little magic and it's a different story. They only wanted to score each other off."

"That's how it will always be when magic is used for gain," Dagan offered solemnly. "It corrupts people. Look at Serralla."

Chel favored the big man with a fond smile. "You're right, my friend. You've got a way of keeping us on the right track. Where would I be without you?"

Max realized Chel was right. Dagan's was a simple faith, but one couldn't doubt his sincerity. Maybe if more people could be like that, all this wouldn't have happened.

"We'll go now," Chel decided, dispersing the wards with a few muttered words. They mounted and regained the trail and were soon racing along at top speed. Max glanced over at Chel's face and saw concentration there. He was 'listening' for Rudiz' return or for some other threat.

They made good time through the passes, and presently it was time to stop for the night. Max dismounted gratefully, watching Chel ward the camp. At least they'd be safe while they slept. Then he wondered if his sudden confidence in magic was a case of famous last words.

  


 

*****

 

  


*Master.*

The summoning roused John Peter McAllister from a deep and comfortable sleep, but as always, he awoke alert and ready for danger, listening to see what it was that had disturbed him. He didn't believe he'd heard something, but there was a feeling that he was no longer alone, and he lay silently concentrating until he realized why the sensation was familiar.

"Serralla," he acknowledged in resigned tones. "What do you want _this_ time?"

*Just to remind you that your death is fast approaching,* the sorceress communicated.

Telepathy, was it? He decided to try it for himself. *Threats are a waste of time.*

She picked up on it right away. *I would not be so sure if I were you, Defender. Defender? A jest, that is. A sacrificial lamb. You know why they've brought you here, John.* Her voice caressed his name. *To distract and stall me, to risk your life while they try other strategies, John. John, join me. Together there is nothing we could not do.*

*I don't think so.* He steered his thoughts away from Max; he couldn't alert her to Max's approach. *Why not give it up, Serralla? You can't win, you know. You don't have enough power, no matter how much you store in your source. That's why you haven't challenged me yet. You're not ready.*

*I could crush you this very minute,* she threatened darkly. *You know how that feels, John. The triumph of using your skills to crush your enemy, the heady sense of power when you vanquish an opponent. You have killed your enemies before. Confess, at least to me, that a part of you thrilled to their defeat. Didn't your blood sing in your veins when you slew them? Didn't your heart beat a little faster with the excitement, the power of it? I know it did. You trained for years to reach the peak of your skills. Now you waste them. Join me and be wholly a man again. Together we can do anything.*

*I don't think so,* McAllister replied. She hadn't tempted him. He had renounced that life, and it had never been as she described it. There had been no thrill in killing, no joy. Sometimes there had been the satisfaction of a job well done, but not because he'd killed to achieve it. Never that. He had trained not only to fight but also to control his emotions, to learn restraint and balance. Those were more important than fighting and killing and always had been. *You're wrong, Serralla. You don't understand. I pity you. You need power to combat your sense of insecurity and failure. You could have achieved anything, had you done it legitimately. But no. Go too far with your magic and it will turn on you and crush you. I won't join you.*

*You delude yourself,* Serralla told him impatiently. *I thought you might be strong, a willing consort worth of sharing my powers, but no, you choose the meek, peaceful way. You sneer at the thrill of defeating your enemy. I want no part of you, so I will smash you as easily as I have conquered half this world.*

*The other half will beat you, Serralla, or I will. I can stop you without the corruption of evil ways, and I think you know it because you fear me.*

*I fear nothing and no one.*

*Then why confront me, why try to convert me? I must be a threat to you or you'd simply leave me alone.*

*You anger me, Defender,* she snarled at him. *I could ignore you before, but I will not tolerate your insults. Although I consider you weak and a fool, I will still lure you to my side because to do so is to win one more battle. With you gone, I will easily crush Raban's puny resistance. Your defeat will demoralize them, and I can trample them out of my way more easily with you gone. Don't think to cross me without due consideration. Ninja you are. You can't leave it behind so easily. That would make your whole life a lie. Don't renounce it so easily. It's a part of you, the way you lived and fought. You see. I know something of your background. I would not let an enemy so close to me without discovering all I could about him. I have my sources in your world, and they told me about you. A man named Okasa? Ah, you react to that. Suppose I bring Okasa here? He will gladly kill your allies for me. He will help to defeat you.*

*You don't want to kill me, Serralla,* McAllister reminded her. *I'm no good to you dead. You have to turn me. Bringing Okasa here won't do that. This is just talk. If you can't turn me, you haven't won. If I die, you lose by default.*

*Do I? Do you think Raban's alliance will hold up with you dead at my hand?*

*Maybe not,* McAllister replied. *But I'm not as easy to kill as you seem to think. Is this the time of your choice? Do you want to contend with me now? I'm ready for you.*

*I will strike without warning.*

*I'll always be ready for you,* McAllister promised, wishing she would believe him and draw back, but knowing she would not abandon her fight because he stood in her way. He would have to vanquish her, and he would have to do it without his ninja skills, or she might claim he had been turned. If he had killed her as he had once killed his enemies, she would win even in death. He didn't understand how to beat her yet, but he would find a way. Without her power source, she might be less powerful. He had to convince her that he would _never_ accept the old ways of the Ninja, but that alone would not defeat her, because she would retain her abilities and she could always create a new source, although it would take time. Maybe it would take enough time for Raban and his army to defeat her empire in battle, but then there would be nothing to halt her rise to power again.

As if she had followed his thinking, she chortled victoriously in his mind. *You see, Defender, you cannot win without killing me, and if you kill me, you lose. I am triumphant. I could crush you right now, but I won't. I will give you time to face your defeat. Perhaps you will join me then, John. Think of it. Join your power to mine. You can still survive. You can even share a taste of my power. Could Raban and the Council stand against us? No. There's strength in you, John. I can feel it. Even if you lose, even if you join me, we could share that strength.* A suggestive laugh. *You've never seen me, John. You could count me a beautiful woman. I could please you in many ways.*

*So you could,* he replied calmly. *You think I would throw everything away just to get into your bed? If I were defeated, you would have stopped trying to persuade me long ago. Good night, Serralla. When you're ready to face me, come back. Until then, go away. You're beginning to bore me.* He retreated into his mind, using his ninja disciplines to cut off her importunings, and for a moment, he sensed her beating against the edges of his mind, seeking admission, and felt her fury when she realized he had stopped her this time. He wondered if she would fling her powers against him in rage, but she had too much restraint for that, and after a few minutes, she abandoned the attempt, and he could no longer sense her presence.

Once Serralla was gone from his mind, he felt another presence nearer at hand, and he opened his eyes to find a pale-faced Dare bending over him, peering down at him by the light of a glowbox. "Are you all right?" Dare demanded and McAllister was startled to feel genuine concern in the First Minister's voice. "Your amulet summoned mine. Did she attack you? Are you hurt?"

"She contacted me," McAllister said, looking down in surprise at his amulet, which was glowing a pale green, already fading. He had worn it to bed since it was supposed to be a link to Dare and Arran in times of crisis, and it seemed that it really worked. When Serralla contacted him the first time, Dare and Arran had still been in his world. Dare was close at hand, and he was able to detect the use of magic. Although his concern was probably only for the safety of the Protectorate, McAllister was grateful for it, and he sat up, smiling at Dare. "I'm all right. She didn't try anything, at least nothing magic. She only tried to talk me into joining her. I wasn't tempted."

"Not at all?" Dare asked suspiciously.

"No. How could I join her? Max is heading for Crag Castle. Even if I had been tempted, I couldn't do anything to jeopardize his life just as you couldn't risk your brother or Raban."

Dare looked uneasy, perhaps at McAllister's grasp of his motives, but he didn't admit it. He set the glowbox on the table and sat in the chair beside the bed. "Chel contacted me this evening," he admitted. "I know they were safe just a few hours ago. Serralla sent a troop of soldiers with a second rate magician to look for them, but my brother's wards are second to none. A competent magician is valuable in any venture."

"I'm glad he's with Max," McAllister agreed. "Max tends to be reckless--like your Prince. If the two of them had gone together, I would really have worried."

"So would I," agreed Dare with a chuckle that sounded remarkably human. Then his face darkened again and he looked like the man McAllister had first met. "Did that bitch Serralla say anything about killing magicians?"

"No. I didn't ask her. I'd prefer she didn't know how much we've realized until we finally confront her. She isn't ready yet or she would have tried something tonight. I think she may be stretched a little thin. She's sending illusions to aid her army, she's controlling her captive people, she's talking telepathically to me, and she's hunting for Max and Chel. I know she's very powerful, but surely doing all that and more is bound to tire her. I think she's afraid I can stop her or she wouldn't have tried to talk me over to her side." He rubbed a hand across his bald pate and down to massage his temples. "The problem is, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to beat her. She says if I kill her, I'll be reverting to the old ways and that she'll win even if she dies, meaning, I suppose, that her Empire won't fall with her death."

"Maybe. I don't know that killing her would mean reverting though," Dare consoled him, a task he was obviously uncomfortable with. "I don't think you ever fully practiced the ninja ways, did you? I know you killed for hire, but I'm sure you chose your missions. Maybe you had guidelines."

"I did, but I'm not sure now that I had the right to do it. When I left the sect, I vowed that I wouldn't kill my enemy again. Even when I defeated Okasa and held my sword at his throat, I didn't kill him. He wanted me to do it--I had bested him and he'd lost face and felt he deserved to die, but I refused to kill him. I was right, but he believed me wrong. I think part of the reason he's so determined to kill me is to gain face. He believes I'll betray the sect, but I won't. I still believe in much of what the ninja stands for. I respect the traditions and I'm grateful for the peace and discipline I discovered in Japan. I miss it especially since I can't go back."

"Couldn't you destroy the ones who betrayed you and the sect and cleanse it, making it what it was?"

"I don't know. I've thought of that. But if I kill them because of a difference in belief, then I don't differ from them, do I?"

"Most people don't have that luxury, McAllister," Dare told him with a curl to his lip. "It's hard to find peace in either of our worlds. Do you have the right to let them get away with it? If you stopped them, your world would be better for it."

"Do you believe that?" McAllister shook his head. "First I kill Okasa and his disciples, then more evil ninja appear and I kill them too. I kill the people who come after them and every evil man I find. It never ends. The only way I can stop evil is to stop it within myself and influence people I come in contact with. It's the old argument about the end justifying the means."

"Doesn't it?" asked Dare. "If you say it doesn't, then you're a damn fool. Idealists meet nasty ends, McAllister. I could get to like you, but I prefer not to take the risk. You're certain to meet a nasty end, and I don't want to be involved with it."

"What would Raban say?" McAllister asked. "Does he believe the end justifies the means?"

"Of course not. He's a simplistic fool. I have my work cut out for me just keeping the man alive."

"And yet, you give him your loyalty--your love. You know he's worthy of it. Most people aren't brave enough to live the way they believe. Raban stands up for his honor, and you respect that. You're only complaining because you fear for his life."

Dare grimaced, picking up the glowbox again and twirling it around in his hands, its pale yellow glow tracing odd patterns on his face and creating eerie shadows behind him. "In your world, McAllister, when someone talks like you're doing now, he's accused of playing amateur psychologist. We don't have psychologists in Lorrania, and I think we're the better for it. But don't try to second guess me. Yes, I care for Raban and he knows it. Someone once told me that if nothing else, holding onto my pain was keeping me alive. Raban heard that and said he wanted me to have more to hold to than that. He's my friend although I don't go around admitting it. Arran would die of astonishment if he heard me talking now. Damn the boy. When Maranna--before things changed, when Arran was still a boy, he used to follow me everywhere. I encouraged him and hoped my son would grow up like him. After Larn died, I couldn't bear to have Arran around, so I took to holding him off by being cold or sarcastic. He was too young to understand. He hates me now."

"I hardly think so," McAllister encouraged. "He's old enough to understand now."

"He's not old enough to forgive me."

McAllister realized how much it mattered, and he remembered the look on Dare's face when Arran had casually flung orders at him back in Dagan's camp. Dare still held the boy at arm's length, and Arran hadn't yet learned enough wisdom to understand why. Raban _did_ understand and he had a vast and fervent compassion that would have opened him to Dare even if he hadn't loved him like a brother. That Dare had brought about his own alienation from Arran didn't help him to live with it, and McAllister wasn't sure how best to help him. He could hardly go to Arran with this. Dare would hate him for it. But maybe he could help the Prince learn patience. Lord knows he had lots of practice, trying to teach it to Max.

"He'll come around one day," McAllister said, believing it. "If you didn't still matter to him, he could be indifferent to you. There's a very fine line between loving someone and hating him."

"I...don't have it in me to change." McAllister knew these midnight confidences could never have been spoken by the light of day, and he was glad of Serralla's contact, for giving Dare an opportunity to open up like this. The man needed to air his concerns, and much as he cared for Raban, he must still find it difficult to open to him completely.

"Maybe not yet," McAllister agreed, touching Dare's arm briefly, knowing the man would resent anything else. "But I've seen a change in you already. I was worried that our speculations about the deaths of all the magicians would drive you to revenge."

"You think it hasn't?" Dare's face hardened instantly. "I want to kill that bitch, and when I hear she is dead, I'll be glad of it. I'd be gladder if I could kill her with my own hands. But I just want her dead. Maranna was--special. When she was alive, everything was different."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Dare lifted his eyes briefly to meet the Master's then looked away. "There's nothing to say. I was on a mission. When I returned they were dead. They had been--burned. Larn's face was unmarked, and it was full of the most terrible fear I'd ever seen. Maranna was unrecognizable. If she hadn't been with Larn in our quarters, I would have been unable to recognize her. We never found out what had caused it, not till now. Some said one of her spells backfired. Sometimes that happens if a magician tries something too far beyond her powers." Dare's voice was flat and utterly emotionless. "If Serralla killed her, I want Serralla to die, to die in as much pain as Maranna and Larn did. I could have been glad they were together--except it meant that each knew how the other died, and I..." His voice trailed off. "I couldn't--there was nothing I could have done to save them. If I'd been there..."

"If you'd been there, you'd have died too."

"Don't you think I would have preferred that?" Dare flung at him savagely. "Do you think I have anything to live for now?"

"Raban," suggested the Master gently. "Chel. Arran." He looked at Dare's bowed head and put his hand on the Minister's shoulder. "And although you won't want to hear it now, yourself. You were spared for some purpose. It may be that purpose is to help rid Lorrania of Serralla. It may be you were spared because Raban needs you as much as you need him."

It was plain that that didn't help yet. Dare must never have spoken of these things before, or of his wife's and son's death. It was certainly the first time he had cried for them, because his body suddenly shook with painful tears as if he were learning how to cry. Cursing, he flung his arm over his eyes, as if despising his weakness. McAllister got out of bed and stood behind him, his hands gently massaging the man's neck and shoulders. He was too fragile now to withstand an embrace, although he might be more receptive to human contact later. McAllister wished he could use telepathy to send for Raban, but Raban was not a magician and that was the only reason McAllister could touch Serralla that way.

A faint sound from the doorway caused him to lift his eyes, and he saw Arran standing there, fingers clutched around an amulet like the one he and Dare wore, and he knew it had alerted the Prince to Serralla's contact. Arran's face was white and shaken, and his own eyes were suddenly too bright, as if he had finally realized how things stood between him and Dare. He looked furious at himself for not understanding, but helpless, too, as if he feared Dare's emotions. This would be the wrong time for Dare to see the Prince, and McAllister shook his head at him and mouthed the words, "Fetch your father." Raban would know best what to do, when to appear and what to say, and he would accept anything Dare would share with him. He had learned enough patience in the past six years to deal with Dare's dark moods. If anyone could help Dare now, it would be Raban.

Arran looked stricken, but he nodded abruptly and spun away before Dare could realize he was there. Later on, McAllister could corner the boy and talk to him about what he had seen so that Arran might know how to react to his father's friend when they met again.

Raban did not come immediately; perhaps he was waiting just out of range of the doorway. McAllister waited patiently, kneading Dare's shoulders and occasionally muttering soothing words, and presently Dare regained his control. McAllister held his peace and finally Dare took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and blew his nose. He didn't look directly at the Master, and waiting any longer would create tension, so he said calmly, "Feel better?"

Dare shot him a startled glance and said in his old sarcastic voice, "Not noticeably," but there was no real defensiveness there. He didn't seem really uncomfortable and that was a step in the right direction. The sarcasm was part of his nature, but he could have withdrawn completely. He might prefer to avoid the Master for a bit, but not completely.

"It's never that easy," McAllister said. "I've felt something of it when I kept missing my daughter. I don't know if I'll ever find her, or if she even wants to be found, but there's nothing else but to go on living. I don't think you'd want to die if it meant doing it at your own hand."

"You can't be sure of that." But Dare's lip curled fastidiously. No, he wasn't suicidal. That might come later, after Serralla was defeated and Dare realized that her death did not bring Larn and Maranna back. But a few words in the right ear might aid him then. Raban would do anything for his friend and he was perceptive enough to realize that Dare wouldn't find revenge as sweet as he hoped he would.

There was a knock at the door and Dare stiffened and looked at McAllister suspiciously as if he knew that the Master had sent for someone. Raban poked his head in. "I saw the light. Is everything all right, John?"

"Serralla tried to contact me," McAllister explained. "To try to tempt me to her side. She failed. But these amulets reacted and Dare came to see if I was all right. What are you doing up so late?"

"Just making the rounds," Raban explained easily. "As long as we're all up, why not have a drink?"

McAllister shook his head. "Nothing for me, thanks. I'll catch up on my rest. I need it more than you younger fellows."

Raban shot him a knowing look. "You'll probably live to be a hundred, John. You're ageless. But if you won't, you won't. How about you, Dare? Keep your weary leader company?"

"Weary leader," Dare scoffed in a normal voice. "You ask for it, do you know that? Someday, when this is all over, I shall help you rearrange your Protectorate so that you don't do everything yourself. You have to be up before dawn, remember?" He rose and reached for the glowbox.

"Take it," McAllister urged. "I don't want anything but my bed."

The two men went out together, and Raban pulled the door to behind him. McAllister returned to bed and settled himself for sleep. He hoped Arran would have the decency to leave his questions for the morning.

For once, the Prince did. The Master was undisturbed for the remainder of the night.

  


 

*****

 

  


Max Keller had always viewed sleeping on the ground as one of life's more unpleasant experiences, and even though he'd done it a few times, he'd never quite grown to like it. This morning, he woke up and stretched and promptly wished he hadn't. He ached in places he didn't even recognize, and the sight of Dagan cheerfully whistling as he prepared breakfast caused Max to glare at the big Guard in disgust.

Across the clearing, Chel was just rising, roused by the pungent smell of tea. Max grimaced at the thought of it, although it would complete the waking up process. He wished for a comfortable bed, a waterbed maybe, with a pretty young thing, leggy and blond, bending over him to awaken him with a kiss, but Chel's audible groan distracted him from his pleasant fantasy.

"Next time, I swear I'll magick myself a feather bed," Chel groused. "I'm not meant for this kind of life. I should be living in luxury, making myself comfortable with my gifts rather than sleeping on rocks as big as a man's fist. I've got permanent dents in my spine. I'll probably never walk upright again."

Immediately Max felt ten times better. He didn't know if Chel had complained to lighten his mood or if it were simply a part of Chel's nature; he suspected a combination of both. Chel was a chameleon, one moment brave and clever, the next acting like he feared his own shadow, and Max didn't know which was the real Chel. He was not quite sure Chel knew himself.

Motivated by the magician's complaints, he jumped up and did a few exercises to work the kinks out of his back. Chel didn't have a monopoly on giant rocks. What had seemed like pebbles the night before had grown to mammoth proportions overnight.

"Good morning, all," Dagan greeted them with such good cheer that Max and Chel exchanged disgusted glances, although it was hard to stay annoyed at the big man, especially when he held out tin plates. "Breakfast," he announced. "Rabbit. I caught it before you woke up. And tea."

"I don't like your tea," Max complained, but he took the cup anyway and downed the contents, grimacing. "It tastes terrible. You should taste tea in my world."

"I have," Chel returned, savoring his. "It tastes like stale bathwater. No flavor. Now this is a man's cup of tea. Put hair on your chest, it will."

"After it strips your stomach lining," Max disagreed. "It's foul. Did you like anything in my world, Chel?"

"Malt scotch," Chel confirmed happily. "I brought back half a dozen bottles with me. Now there's a drink fit for a magician."

"How about beer?" asked Max.

"We've got beer here. Tastes about the same. Not as good as this ale." He held up the flask. "It's a question of what you're used to, Max. I found most of your food too bland. Tacos, now, were a rare delight. The Prince couldn't get enough of them, with that green sauce. That green stuff was too strong for me, but he loved it."

"You ought to open a taco stand and use it for your Gateway," Max suggested, munching on his portion of rabbit and mopping up the juices with hard trail bread. "Think how much more fun that would be."

"But there'd be no bar windows, Max, and no malt scotch."

Still squabbling amiably about culinary differences between their two worlds, they finished up their breakfast and packed the lizards. When everything else was ready, Chel performed the ritual, making up the effigy with dry grass, shaping it roughly into a human form and setting it in the offering frame. Dagan brought two bundles of twigs and lit them as if they were candles, while Chel made the offering to the day. "Have mercy on us, Mighty One, and bless our endeavor. We offer you a sacrifice to show our respect, and to call down your blessings on us today, for we walk in dangerous times. Hold us in your hands and ward us against our enemies so that we can continue to serve you."

"Amen," intoned Dagan.

Chel continued the service in a litany of praise for their god, with Dagan echoing, "Amen," at the end of each section, and Max sat silently watching. Although he didn't share their belief, he respected it, all the more because the red cloaks had passed them through three villages they couldn't circle and two border gates without the least incident the day before.

Finally Dagan said the last "Amen" and held the flame to the effigy. It flared up immediately, and when it was ashes, the magician lifted the frame away and scattered them with his hand.

"Well, let's go," he said.

As he mounted up, Max discovered another set of pains that he hadn't noticed before in his general stiffness. Although the lizard was a slightly more comfortable ride than a horse and he had not come to riding a novice, he still had a few tender spots, most of them in unmentionable places. But when he had eased himself into the saddle and shifted a few times, he found a position that he could endure. They didn't have quite as far to go today; they should reach the coast before dark, north of Crag Castle. Today they would stay off main trails and cut across country to avoid patrols. Once it was dark, they would work their way down the coast. The labyrinth began outside the city and there were said to be several entrances. They were generally untended because the labyrinth could guard itself, and setting a watcher there would be as unnecessary as setting a guard at Cape Canaveral in Max's own world against alien landings. Serralla might choose to post a guard or two this time, expecting someone to try to get through to her power source in answer to the prophecy, but Chel could make them invisible without using much magic. It wouldn't be easy to get into Crag Castle, but it wouldn't be impossible, either.

Feeling a surge of confidence, Max led the way out of their shelter to the main trail.

Two minutes later, they were surrounded by armed men.

As he was grabbed and restrained, Max recognized Dragoris, and he cast an accusing look at Chel, who had been able to sense the troop's approach yesterday. Chel was too good a magician to ignore such danger, but when he looked around, Max didn't see Rudiz among the members of the band and when he was brought before Dragoris, he demanded, "What have you done with your magician?"

"Got rid of him. He was more trouble than he was worth. How do _you_ know about my magician?"

"We know," Dagan insisted. "We saw you yesterday."

"Warded?" Dragoris frowned. "Then one of you is a magician. You sensed that fool's power and warded against it. Wards that good must be Chel's." He studied the three of them and his eyes came to rest knowingly on Chel. "So you're Chel. Now that I've got you, I wish I had Rudiz back. He could tell me if you tried to work magic. But let me say this. You can't illusion yourself away because we'd see through it. You've no choice. You must come with us."

"Where?" Max's voice reeked of hostility.

"Crag Castle, where else? M'lady will see you personally. You may be Chel," he added to the little magician, "but you're no match for the lady. She's devoured hostile magicians before."

"We know," snapped Chel in a moment of defiance, then, when Dragoris' eyes narrowed and he stared at the Protectorate magician suspiciously, Chel's bravado faded and he fell silent, looking small and frightened and pathetic.

"Bind them," Dragoris ordered. "Then we ride for home."

Ten minutes later, a dispirited lot of prisoners were being led through northern Rhun at top speed on their way to Crag Castle. Max struggled against his bonds. He knew he'd learned enough from the Master to free his hands, but the time wasn't right. Even if he could free himself, what good would it do in the midst of this army? Their obvious weapons had been removed, including Max's sword, but he still had his shuriken and smoke bombs, a rope, and other less obvious things that could come in handy. Perhaps they had no legends of wheels of death, or perhaps Chel had found a way to render his ninja tools invisible. Angry and resentful at the guards' search and their imprisonment, Max could only wait, smoldering with rage. He glanced at Dagan and saw to his surprise that the big Guard looked tranquil and relaxed, and when he felt Max's eye upon him, he winked and grinned encouragingly. Max felt slightly reassured. Dagan looked calm and confident now, and Max turned to Chel to see if the magician was the source of Dagan's confidence.

Chel sat huddled in his saddle, the very picture of abject misery. He didn't look like he could magick so much as a cockroach.

Almost as if it took too much effort to bother, Chel lifted his head and he caught Max's eyes. His face was glum and frightened, but something more active and determined flickered in his eyes. He looked away again almost immediately, but not before Max felt a surge of relief that he concealed from his captors. Chel would act when the time was right. In the meantime, they were on their way to Crag Castle at top speed. They weren't hurt, and they were under the protection of a band of Imperial guards. No new dangers would threaten them while they traveled like this, and when the time came, they could escape. In the meantime, their enemies protected them. Max let his rage and fury slide out of his mind, and began to relax. As long as Chel could get them free later, it was a wonderful joke. It was all he could do to keep from bursting out laughing.

Very carefully, he assumed the look of a subdued prisoner, no threat to anyone. He hoped no one would suspect he was merely biding his time. Before he had met the Master, he wouldn't have been able to wait like this; he would have been too impatient to take action immediately. But too much was riding on this, and he could wait if he must. He didn't have to like it, but he could take it. The Master was always after him to practice patience. Well, he'd practice it today. He'd let himself look meek and stupid and frightened, and trust in Chel to get them away later. He'd help the magician all he could. He wasn't chopped liver here. He was a ninja, an apprentice ninja anyway, and he was good for more than being passively rescued. When the time came, he'd do all he could to help.

Max heaved a mock sorrowful sigh and made a show of testing his bonds and failing to move them. He slumped in his saddle, the picture of defeated resignation. The soldiers near him laughed, and the closest, the girl he'd noticed the previous day, said, "That's right, my fighting cock. Try for freedom. And wouldn't I just love to chase you down."

"Capture by you might even be fun," Max returned automatically.

"You think so?"

Max saw the hard glitter in her eyes. "Well, maybe not," he conceded, hoping he sounded defeated.

"That's what I thought."

  


 

*****

 

  


Breakfast at Abarant Castle was not a formal affair. Unless one arrived at the same time as the royal family, one could serve oneself from a side table and take as long as one liked to eat. When the Master came down for breakfast the following morning, rather later than usual because of the alarums and excursions of the night, he found the room all but deserted with neither Raban, his son, nor Dare present. McAllister filled a plate from a supply of food on the side table and a servant brought him hot tea and a fruit drink that tasted rather like papaya juice. He sat by himself and ate, wondering as he did why he felt so uneasy. Serralla had not won the night before, and Raban would have coped with Dare's dark mood easily enough.

Max! Once he thought of his young friend, he knew what the trouble was. Max was in danger. Stretching out with his ninja senses, he tried to concentrate on Max--this kind of ability seemed to have been boosted since his arrival in Lorrania, perhaps by the same ability that enabled him to speak another language without actually learning it. He could communicate telepathically with Serralla, although not with anyone else, so why couldn't he sense Max's trouble? He would have done it back home, although not quite as strongly.

But the longer he tried, the weaker the sense of danger became until it finally faded. McAllister knew Max was in danger; the whole journey could be nothing else. Perhaps some threat had come close to him and had since departed. Relaxing a little, he continued his meal.

He had almost finished when there was a minor commotion behind him and Arran appeared with a plate of food, trailed by two or three servants who carried pots of hot tea, napkins, flasks of ale and other choice breakfast morsels. Arran accepted tea and waved the others away, sitting across from the Master. He caught McAllister's eye meaningfully, then applied himself to his food. The people at nearby tables finished their meals in a hurry and departed, as if they had realized that the Prince wanted to speak to the Defender privately.

When no one remained within earshot, Arran leaned forward across the table. "I want to talk to you, Master. Not here; it's too public. Somewhere we won't be overheard. I thought the archery range. Do you know anything about archery?"

"A little." Ninjas trained in archery and he was more than competent, but that wasn't the issue right now. "It seems a good place. Have you seen Dare this morning?"

"No, not yet. I want to talk to him, but I don't know what to say."

"If you mean about last night, I don't think you should say anything," McAllister told him, finishing his fruit drink and setting the glass aside. "Eat your breakfast. When we get to the archery range, I can tell you what I think might be best."

Arran applied himself to his food with the gusto of youth, reminding McAllister of Max, whose appetite remained undiminished in the greatest crisis. No matter what happened, Max could polish off a good meal. _Ah, youth_ , thought McAllister, grinning a little.

Between bites, Arran asked questions more suited to the current crisis. "Serralla contacted you again, didn't she? My amulet lit up--and it was a damned awkward time too. Ladies don't always understand the workings of magic. I could have been there sooner if I hadn't been--er--occupied."

"I understand." McAllister masked a smile. "It wasn't a real crisis." he observed comfortingly. "She was just testing me, dabbling her feet to see what the waters were like."

"Trying to turn you to her way of thinking," Arran muttered through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "Were you tempted?"

"Not in the slightest. Even if Max hadn't been in her territory, I wouldn't have been tempted. It goes against everything I believe in."

"I heard most of what Dare said to you about the end justifying the means," Arran admitted. "Enough to wonder anyway. Who has the right to make such a decision? I'd like to think that the end doesn't justify the means, but how can I know? Suppose the end was the survival of Lorrania and the means were the death of Serralla. Isn't that what we're trying to do anyway, kill her for the good of the world?"

"Yes, and I can see why you're confused. It's a complex question, and I don't have any easy answers for you. Yes, sometimes we have to act like that. What I meant was that a person has to have a code of ethics that he can't give up for convenience. Each situation is different and must be weighed out. For me, using ninja tactics to kill my enemy is wrong. I feel it would be wrong for me to use my skills to destroy Okasa and his disciples. It would be easier to go through life without him, and while there could be a situation where I might be forced to kill him--maybe to save an innocent life--I can't kill him for my own convenience. You want a simplistic and easy answer, Arran, and there isn't one. In the end, each man comes to terms with his own actions. Try thinking about your father. I like his values. Consider what he might do, then ask yourself why he does it. That's the best I can do for you now. Ask me again when this is all over."

"And if it were a choice between Max's life or Serralla's?"

"It might never be. I'd probably choose Max. He's an honorable man, and while I won't say he's never wrong, his motives are usually good. Yes, I'd probably kill an evil person to save a good one, but only if I didn't have any other options. I'd have to live with the results though."

"You're accepting a lot of responsibility," Arran said thoughtfully, downing his tea and grimacing a little. "Isn't that egotistical?"

"Suppose you tell me."

"It might be if _I_ did it," Arran conceded, shoving back his plate. "We're too serious here. Let's go shoot at targets. I want to see how good an archer you are."

They went through a series of passages that McAllister hadn't seen yet, out into a back courtyard. The kitchen gardens were here, and men and women were working in the clear, fresh air, weeding and watering and tending the crops. Arran called out cheerful greetings to them, seeming to know many of them by name, and they responded with evident fondness. That told McAllister almost as much about the Prince as Arran's desperate searching for answers had done a few moments earlier. Someday Arran might be a man of his father's stature; he wasn't far off now. Once he curbed his recklessness and learned to take things more slowly and think them out before he acted, he'd be a force to be reckoned with.

They passed through an arched doorway and came out near the stables. Arran poked his head into one of the stalls and scratched the head of a lizard that nuzzled against him contentedly. The Prince then produced a chunk of rabbit from his pocket and fed it to the creature, who made a peculiar purring sound as it gobbled the treat. "Lizards are carnivorous," Arran explained. "That's their only disadvantage on the road. Horses can graze anywhere, but you have to feed lizards. They don't have big appetites, but you run one eighty miles an hour for two or three days and it could polish off a small dog. People along the roads don't like feeding their dogs to passing lizards. After a long day in the saddle, who wants to go hunting meat for your mount." He scratched the lizard's head again. "This is Racer," he said. "My favorite mount. He's got a burst of speed you wouldn't believe. If we had lizard races like your Kentucky Derby, Racer would win. Dare helped me train him--eight years ago." His face clouded, then he gave the lizard a thundering but affectionate clout on the shoulder. "Come on. The archery butts are through here."

A little shed stored the practice bows, and Arran strung a couple of them easily and offered McAllister his choice.

The one McAllister selected felt like a thirty-pound bow, and he tested it a few times before examining the arrows. They were hand made, of course, but they were smooth and straight, lacking evident flaws. The tips looked like a modification of the Indian arrowheads he had hunted as a boy back in his own world. He tested the tip of one with his finger. Fairly sharp, but these were only target arrows.

"The real thing is a lot more deadly," Arran told him. He gestured off to the targets, which were a good distance away. "How's this suit you? Want to go closer?"

"Let's start here," McAllister suggested, taking his position. "If I screw up, we can always compensate."

"Well, all right, but..."

"One of the reasons I'm the Defender, Arran, is that I know how to handle myself." McAllister drew back the bowstring and let fly. The arrow hit just within the bull's-eye.

Arran made a sloppy job of concealing his surprise. Even knowing what he did about McAllister, he must have expected the Master to do poorly with unfamiliar weapons, and one of McAllister's advantages in recent years was looking old enough that he wasn't always taken seriously. It sometimes gave him an edge that he wouldn't have had if he still possessed a full head of dark hair. He enjoyed people's surprise, but he did not enjoy the fact that his shot had been a little off. "I can do better than that," he said. "Let me get the feel of this bow." He let fly half a dozen more arrows in rapid succession, each one closer until the last one hit dead center. Then he lowered the blow and looked at Arran expectantly. "Do you want to play Robin Hood and try to split my arrow down the middle?"

He should have known Arran couldn't resist the challenge, although he didn't understand the Robin Hood reference. He shot immediately and his arrow swished toward the target. It didn't split McAllister's but it stroked along its length and when it thunked into the target, both arrows were quivering. "Very good," McAllister praised him. "I presume your army has an archers' unit?"

"Of course. Protectorate archers are the best in Lorrania." He fired a few more arrows to prove it, placing them in a circular pattern. McAllister was tempted to offer to snatch them out of midair, but he held back. Arran would insist on learning the trick and he didn't want to take the chance of skewering the Prince.

After a few more arrows, Arran lowered his bow. "Master," he said in the tones of a pupil seeking wisdom, "what shall I do about Dare?"

"What would you like to do?"

"I didn't understand why he was the way he was," Arran confessed, resting the tip of his bow on the ground and leaning against it. "Oh, I knew his wife's death and Larn's changed him, but I didn't really understand. I was only fourteen when they died, and I never saw the bodies. Larn was just a kid, only six. I can't imagine how Dare could have come through that, seeing his wife and Larn that way. I never thought I'd remind him of Larn. He'd always been almost as close to me as my father, but I was too young to understand that he'd thought of me as another son. It must have been hard for him to see me, knowing his own son was gone."

"He could only manage by holding you at a distance," McAllister explained sympathetically. "It was easier and safer that way. He couldn't endure losing another son. It was better to view you only as his Prince and his duty. It doesn't mean that's how he really felt."

"I guess I wanted to try to be a son to him, to make up for losing Larn," Arran finally admitted, staring at the ground, as he traced random patterns in the dirt with his toe. "So when he held me off, I couldn't help taking it personally. I've gone out of my way to be obnoxious to him, as obnoxious as he's been to me."

"It doesn't have to stay that way," McAllister assured him. "I don't think you should say anything to him about last night. He doesn't know you were there and he'd be more comfortable if he didn't know right now. But nobody says you have to keep on playing the arrogant princeling with him. Back off a little and maybe he'll start to change too. Think you can handle that?"

"I can try. But he thinks I hate him." He looked stricken.

"Didn't you, just a little?"

"Maybe, but only because I thought he hated _me_ \--for living when his son was dead."

"Some of that's natural, and it wouldn't be personal. He's past that, though. People can become crazy with grief, and I don't think he's ever been a demonstrative man."

"Not really, although he was more open with me when I was a boy, and he's always been able to lower his guard to Father."

"If it means enough to you now, you can repair the situation. Just ease up a little. Don't push too hard, but don't hold your rank over his head. That doesn't become you, and I haven't seen you do it with anybody else."

"I do with the Guard a little," Arran admitted. "They were so used to treating me like a child that I started to let them know I wasn't."

"They know you're not a child," McAllister told him. "You're not a seasoned warrior either, and no one expects you to be. There are wise heads in the Guard. Listen to them sometimes." He clapped Arran on the shoulder. "And now, what would you say to learning how to throw a shuriken?"

He displayed one before the Prince's eyes, and Arran grinned as enthusiastically as the child he claimed to have left behind. "Right now?" he demanded eagerly. "I'd like nothing better."

"Good," said McAllister, putting the throwing star into Arran's hand. "Now you hold it like this."

  


 

*****

 

  


Raban had gone early, before the Master had awakened, and some of the Councillors had gone with him, but when McAllister came in for his midday meal, he found Thiel of Yere waiting for him with a suggestive smile and an affectionate greeting. Aware of Arran's ill-suppressed amusement as the Prince departed on some business of his own, he turned back to the woman from Yere. She eyed him frankly and said, "You keep late hours, Defender."

"I do when Serralla tries to convert me," McAllister acknowledged, realizing she must have come to his room to be discouraged by the sound of voices within. "It's why I'm here, after all, not for my own pleasure."

She took that to mean he would have welcomed her, and perhaps he might, if the crisis had not been hanging over his head, for he liked her frankness, but there had been too much going on to spare her a thought. "I'm sorry," he added, "but I've got to see this through."

"Surely not every waking minute, man?" she asked. "We'll have lunch together and talk, and maybe after we eat we can repose ourselves for a while and compare notes on our different worlds and customs. I've never met an outlander before you and Max arrived, and I'd like to learn more about your lives."

He smiled and agreed. He didn't feel that Serralla was ready to challenge him yet, and a little pleasant diversion would be nice. He looked at the tall dramatic woman before him and decided that for once he would be like Max and go with the flow. Maybe Thiel would get her wish and maybe not, but he liked the idea of comparing cultures, too, and it might also be wise to stay out of the way and allow Dare and Arran a chance to meet and talk. He could hold neither man's hand through their first encounter; they would have to handle it themselves. Later on, if necessary, he would be here to pick up the pieces.

  


 

*****

 

  


Dragoris drove his band hard, and they made excellent time, better than Max and his team would have made without them, for in the presence of the Erly soldiers, there was no need for concealment. At midday, Dragoris reined in and everyone dismounted for a brief meal and a stroll around to work out the kinks. Fifteen minutes later they saddled up again and resumed their journey.

The blond young woman had been delegated as Max's particular guard and, if she wasn't friendly, she was curious about him. "You must be the one sent to fulfill the prophecy," she suggested shortly after lunch.

"What do you know about the prophecy?" Max wondered, shifting a little in his saddle. He would be blistered by tonight.

"'The Defender and the Acolyte will vanquish the darkness, the Defender against the power of magic and the Acolyte through the dark passages to end that power for all time,'" she quoted. "How can we do without magic? It's part of our lives."

"Not all magic," Max told her impatiently. "I ride with a magician, don't I? You think he'd help me if I came here to destroy all magic? It's only the misuse of magic that I'm here to stop." He was afraid that sounded pompous, but she took it seriously.

"You mean the Lady," she whispered, her eyes widening. "Why is it evil for Erly to triumph? We've always fought. It's the way we live."

"Have you always fought with magic? Have you formed Empires? Have magicians been killed out of hand because one magician wants it all?"

Her face darkened. "That's a filthy lie, Outworlder," she accused him. "What magicians have met their ends? You're from a world where magic doesn't even exist. You know nothing about it."

"You're right, I don't know much. I only know one or two names. Somebody named Raviel died in a riding accident, but that might not mean anything. The main one was a Protectorate magician named Maranna."

"Now I know you're a fool," the young solder spat at him. "Maranna's the Lady's chief assistant. She came here from the Protectorate, it's true, but she came so she could work with the Lady. Everyone is drawn to her. She's done wonders for our people."

"So it's okay to take over the world, as long as you're on the winning side?" Max challenged her.

"If the others are too weak to withstand our army, we have the right," she replied.

"Of course they're too weak if your Lady uses magic against them," Max accused. "And let's go back to Maranna. If she's the one I'm thinking of, she was supposed to have been burned to death along with her little boy. That's what her husband believes anyway. She doesn't have a boy with her, does she?"

"No. I don't think so. I've never seen her with a child."

"Then if it's the same woman, she faked her death and actually killed her six year old son. Is that the kind of ally your Lady would want if she was what you thought she was?"

"Protectorate lies," the girl spat at him. "You're trying to turn me against my people and the Lady."

"What if I'm right?" Max insisted. "What if it's the same woman and she killed her own son because she wanted the power your Lady could offer her? Would you still think you're right?"

"I think you're lying to me to make me let you go," she returned. "I won't do it. I shouldn't even be listening to you."

"Don't go yet." Max pleaded. "I won't ask you to let me go. What's your name anyway? I can't keep calling you 'hey, you'."

That won a faint smile from her as if he'd said something original; maybe all his old lines from back home could be used to great effect in Lorrania. She said quickly, "My name's Jennara. And you are--other than the Acolyte?"

"My name's Max Keller. You can call me Max." He couldn't help wondering if it were the same Maranna. What if it were? Dare had grieved his wife's death, but if she had been burned, maybe it had been too badly to be recognized. Or maybe it was just a second skilled Protectorate magician named Maranna? Surely not. If there'd been two, Chel would have told him; it would have come out when they were discussing the loss of magicians. So what did this mean? Had Serralla corrupted Maranna and lured her away to Erly and Crag Castle, or had Maranna dabbled too deeply in magic and become corrupted by it? Did magicians reach a point beyond which lay corruption, like the Dark Side of the Force, or was it simply a matter of usage? Magic itself, the power of magic, should be neutral, neither good nor bad, speculated Max. But any kind of power could be corrupting, so why not magic too? Max couldn't imagine Chel becoming tainted by Serralla's dark power, but surely none of them had expected it of Maranna, either. God, he wanted to talk to Chel. But Chel was still slumped in his saddle, looking small and harmless and frightened. The time of their escape had not yet come.

"Are you really from another world, Max?" Jennara asked him. "I know it's possible to go between, but I don't know the way of it. The Lady sometimes sends observers and has people bring back useful things for her. Don't look like that. If Raban and the Protectorate can bring back people to fight his battles for him, then the Lady can do the same."

"It depends on what and why," Max replied without offense. "Yes, I'm from another world. We didn't know about this world before we came here, and I still can't quite believe it. The first thing I had to do here was fight a mur-wolf." He displayed his bandaged arm. "All I had was a knife."

"And you killed it?" She looked reluctantly impressed. "The power must have been with you."

"I don't know about any power. I've just been trained to fight."

"So you're a warrior too? Then why do you belittle me?"

"I don't belittle your skill as a warrior, Jennara. I disapprove of the way your Lady uses her power. That's a different thing."

"You've been corrupted by Protectorate lies," she snapped.

"Well, maybe. But the Protectorate didn't imprison me and my friends. Your people did that."

"Only because you're spies and saboteurs planning to destroy Erly."

"I don't want to destroy Erly," Max objected. "It's the Empire I'm not so crazy about. From what I've heard of your world, it's not natural, and the Lady got where she is now with magic, taking over the minds of the enemy troops. Are soldiers in Erly so weak that they depend on magic to fight their battles?"

"We rely on our skills," she hissed, but the slightest hint of doubt crossed her face. He wondered if he was starting to get through to her. He persisted, determined to convince her. "You had Rudiz with you yesterday," he reminded her. "Do magicians go with fighting troops very often?"

"No," she admitted reluctantly. "Only to help the wounded, although magicians don't seem to be healers any more, and, sometimes, to play weather games. But this is different. We have to defend ourselves."

"Your mighty Empire needs a magician and a small army to hold off three men?" Max asked skeptically. "Come on, that doesn't sound like the power that defeated half this world, does it? Listen to me, Jennara. You're smart and you're a soldier. You know this isn't the way it's supposed to be. You've been winning and that goes to a soldier's head. You get to believe in your skill and your luck, and you start to think you're invincible. But no one's ever done this before. Is your army the greatest that ever lived? Get real. This is an unnatural power. Think it over. All I'm asking is that you think about it."

"I won't. You're trying to trick me."

"No, I'm leveling with you. I don't know much about your world yet, but I do know magic's supposed to be honorable and not used for gain."

"Magic _is_ honorable, not for gain."

"Then why did Maranna kill her little boy?" The horror of that made Max feel sick. He couldn't begin to comprehend a woman who would kill her child for power. If she'd done that, Maranna must be even worse than Serralla. Her actions made Serralla's power-lust seem almost human by comparison. It couldn't really be the same Maranna, could it?

"What was the child's name?" asked Jennara, an edge of doubt creeping into her voice.

"Larn. His name was Larn."

Her face puckered up in thought. "I don't know. There are so many children in Crag Castle, and I don't know all their names. I'm not part of the Castle guard, just an ordinary soldier. It seems I've heard the name someplace. Maybe there _is_ a Larn there."

"Yeah, and maybe not. Anyway, nobody told her husband she was leaving. He believes she was burned to death, and that much I know for sure."

Pain flashed in Jennara's face. "That's cruel," she whispered.

"Killing a kid's not?"

"I don't believe that part of your story."

"Look, they found bodies that were badly burned."

"Maybe it was something else, magicked to look like bodies, a glamour."

"Couldn't be. Dare can sense the use of magic. He'd have figured it out." Max wondered then if he really would. Any man seeing the charred bodies of his wife and son is not likely to be looking closely or thinking clearly. If Maranna were alive, she'd substituted someone or something to pose as her corpse; she could have killed someone in her place. If the child had been an inconvenience, would she have killed him too, or would she have found another substitute? Max didn't know how glamours worked. Were either of them recognizable? How long would the illusion remain in place? How much magic would it take to pull off such a deception?

"All right, Jennara, enough!" Dragoris bellowed from the head of his band. "Leave the prisoner alone."

Jennara reined back obediently. "Just trying to question him, Cap," she hollered back. "See if he knows anything."

"Well, does he?"

"Don't think so, Cap."

"Then stay the hell away from him. Watch him, no fraternizing. That's an order, girl."

"Aye, sir." She pulled her lizard back a little so that she was close enough to Max to prevent him breaking away but far enough to avoid conversation. She cast a single worried look at him that gave him hope that some of what he said had gotten through to her, but didn't convince him that she would help him escape. Probably she'd think of a way to refute all his arguments and come to the conclusion that he had been trying to lure her to the Protectorate side. Too bad. If she really thought about it fairly, she might eventually come around, but if he couldn't talk to her, he couldn't convince her. He wished the Master were here. The old fella sure had a way with people. He would convince Jennara that she was wrong, and she would know he was telling the truth. If nothing else, she'd sense his honor and his strength. Everybody could.

Max missed the Master. He was used to having him there, and this would be the longest they'd been separated since they first met. He could always turn to McAllister in time of crisis either for help or for guidance in choosing the right solution to a problem. Now Max was a prisoner, being taken deeper and deeper into enemy territory, and he had only a cowardly magician and a placid trooper as his allies. He knew Chel wasn't really a coward, even though he claimed to be, and Dagan would be a good companion in a fight, but it wasn't the same as traveling with a ninja--his own particular ninja. It was going to be a very long day.

When the time for escape finally came, Max almost missed the first clues. He was brooding about the troops around him who had begun to taunt their captives, threatening military annihilation of the Protectorate and its satellites. Jennara had become suspicious of Max, and, when she watched him now, he saw resentment in her eyes, and annoyance at herself for listening to him. Dragoris looked cynical and bad tempered and he was quick to pick out faults among his troopers. When two of them chattered back and forth, Dragoris pounced, informing the man and woman that if they wanted to hold a conversation, they had only to say so and the whole troop would be glad to stop and wait. The withering sarcasm in his tone brought a fleeting frown to Jennara's face, and she shot Max a quick, questioning look. He grinned at her encouragingly.

It was then that he realized the ropes around his wrists were loose, and he glanced down at his hands. To his astonishment, the knots had come undone and the ropes were only draped over his wrists. The faintest trace of blue fire ran along the ropes and dissipated as he watched, and he jerked his head up, seeking Chel. The magician sat with the same downcast look as before, but when he felt Max's eyes upon him, he glanced over and winked at him. *Be ready.* Max felt the words in his head and was astonished. Was this what Serralla had projected at the Master? It was as clear as a shout, but he knew no one else had heard it. Could he do it back?

*When?* he tried, concentrating for all he was worth. Good thing the Master had insisted he spend some time each day in meditation. Otherwise he could never have focused his thoughts enough to manage it.

*Soon. Follow my lead.* Max waited. At first nothing happened, then suddenly, roaring, a huge mur-wolf leaped onto a rock beside the trail and poised to spring.

"Wolves!" bellowed Dragoris. "Weapons, troops! Hurry!" More mur-wolves surged onto the trail ahead of them and someone shrieked in fear. Jennara rode to Max's side, hauling out a knife. "If they come for you, I'll cut you free," she promised, drawing her sword with her other hand. She was controlling her lizard by leg motions alone, the reins wrapped loosely around her left wrist. It was then that she noticed Max's bonds were untied.

For what seemed like five hours but probably couldn't have been more than ten seconds, she stared at Max, her eyes locked with his. He waited without trying to persuade her of anything, looking back frankly. Her eyes darted over to Chel, who had his hands free now and was doing things with blue fire in the general confusion. "Escape," she breathed.

"Your Lady will kill us," Max said hastily. "Come on, Jennara. You know she misuses magic. Don't give us away."

She didn't reply, biting her lip in indecision, then she returned her knife to its belt sheath and let out a bellow, charging at the nearest mur-wolf with her sword. Max stared after her a minute, then he reined over to join Chel and Dagan. While the band was busy with the mur-wolves, they galloped back down the trail.

It was too easy. It had to be too easy. Dragoris was no fool, and it wouldn't take him long to realize the wolves he battled were no more than illusion. A shout behind them confirmed his speculation, and the swish of arrows followed them. "Here," Chel called desperately as they rounded a bend, galloping toward a small recess in the rock while Dagan brought up the rear guard. As soon as Max was in the shelter of the overhang, Chel's hands were afire with the blue light, and Max gasped as he saw himself, racing a-lizardback down the trail the way they had come, Chel ahead of him. "It's the same glamour I used to make the mur-wolves," Chel gasped, clearly tired. "Stand still and I'll take a little energy from you."

Dagan had nearly reached the 'cave' by then, and Chel was braced, ready to create an image of him as soon as he was out of the enemy's sight, but before he could do so, Dagan's body jerked, and with a cry of pain, he toppled from the saddle, pulling the thongs loose that held him in place and slammed into the ground. There were three separate arrows protruding from his back. The frightened lizard raced down the trail, pursuing Chel's illusions.

"Dagan!" cried Max, but Chel said, "Shut up," harshly and Max realized he had to keep quiet or he'd meet the same fate. Biting his lip he watched Chel ward their shelter in record time, seconds before Dragoris led his troop around the bend after them.

The sound of Dagan's lizard plunging down the trail was loud in the silence as they reined up around his body, then Dragoris bellowed, "After them! Hurry! They get too far ahead and they're gone." He glanced down at Dagan's body. "Check him out, Jennara. I don't trust you to follow them, the way you were casting sheep's eyes at the Acolyte all afternoon."

Max stood frozen as the troops charged off. Jennara dismounted handily and knelt beside the big man's body, checking for a pulse in his neck. She must not have found one for she sat back on her heels and cursed. "Damn them all," she cried. "We didn't want him dead."

Until she said it, Max hadn't really believed that Dagan was dead, but the girl's voice took him like a kick in the stomach, and he turned to Chel, expecting him to refute it and reassure Max that it was just another glamour, more illusion. The sight of Chel, white faced and shaken, with silent tears coursing down his cheeks, confirmed the death, and Max demanded helplessly, "Why?"

"There's never a why for death, Max," Chel managed at last, his voice low so Jennara wouldn't hear him. "Any escape would have been risky, and I didn't dare create our replicas until we were out of sight. It just happened."

"Happened!" Max was outraged, although not at Chel. "This stupid war. I couldn't convince Jennara that it was unnatural, even when I found out about Maranna. Damn," he burst out, remembering what the soldier had told him. "Chel, I think we're in big trouble."

"It will keep until we get away from here. Those illusions will lead them a merry chase. They take their energy from nearby life forms, in this case, the troop themselves. Somebody will have to catch one to discover it's not real. Poor Dagan. If nothing else, he made them believe it was true. I wish he were safe with us, but they'll believe his body."

"What about her?" Max asked, pointing at Jennara. "We can't get past her. If we do, they'll see this cave when they come back."

"Then we'll have to take her with us," Chel replied. "And we'll have to leave Dagan. Damn. I hate to do that, but there's nothing else we can do."

But Jennara had shifted Dagan's body to the side of the trail and was busying herself collecting stones. "What's she doing?" Max asked, still shaken.

"She's making a cairn," Chel explained. "I can help her, but I'm pretty drained, and I can't take more energy from you or you will be too. We've got a big night before us and I can't risk that. Think there's a chance she'll listen to you?"

"I don't know," Max said. "Maybe."

"Then go out and talk to her. If we get her on our side, we can make better time. Go on, hurry."

"But the wards?"

"You can walk through them. They're only impregnable from the other side. Get out there. Now."

Max slipped through the wards, feeling a tingle as he crossed them, and Jennara looked up sharply. "You warded already!" she exclaimed. Then she gestured down at Dagan. "What about him? Is this an illusion?"

"No," replied Max, a catch in his voice. "He's really dead."

"I'm sorry, Max. I didn't want that to happen. We were supposed to bring you back for questioning, that's all. The Lady fears you, you see. You and the Defender. But--but she shouldn't, should she, not if she were what she wanted us to believe she is. The prophecy is against evil power. She _is_ evil, isn't she, Max?"

"Yes," he agreed. "She's evil, Jennara. I'm sorry. But we can't stand here talking about it. We've got to get away from here."

"But--" She pointed at Dagan's body, and as she did, rocks lifted up and whizzed around, settling over the body until a cairn marked the place where he lay.

Chel emerged then, leading their lizards, dispersing the wards with a gesture. "Jennara," he greeted her. "We must get to the labyrinth. Will you come with us?"

"Yes," she said. "I--I was loyal to the Lady because she took me in when my family was butchered by mercenaries, but she was never really kind, and she sent me to be a soldier. I don't know if that's what I wanted or not, but you can't disagree with the Lady's orders."

"Tell us on the way," Chel urged, passing Max his reins.

Jennara stared at Chel, unable to miss the traces of tears on his face and the weariness of his posture. "He was your friend, wasn't he?" she asked sympathetically, pointing to the cairn. "I'm sorry." She swung into her saddle and they wheeled their lizards about, heading for Crag Castle.

"Won't the lady know you are coming?" Jennara asked as they rode. "All this power spent so close to her?"

"She knows we're here already," Max muttered sourly. "Why should we try to hide it?"

"But she'll try to stop you," cried the girl urgently. "She'll kill you."

"She might try."

"Being from another world won't save you, Max," she persisted. "Give it up. It's too dangerous."

"Maybe it is," Max replied, "But I still have to do it. You know that. What would Dagan think if we quit now because it was too dangerous? He would have died for nothing."

"No more talking," Chel cut in, his voice hoarse with fatigue and grief. "Let's get away from this damned place."

Max fell silent obediently, although he felt like crying himself. He had liked Dagan a lot. Dagan had been his first friend in the Protectorate and had eased Max through the trauma of his transition, but how much worse was this for Chel, who had known Dagan for many years and counted him his best friend? How hard would it be for Arran, who had been trained by Dagan? He thought of Vesper and the other members of Dagan's squad. As they raced to safety, hoping to get off the trail and out of range of Dragoris and his soldiers, Max ached for the Master. How long would it take them to traverse the labyrinth, sneak into Crag Castle, find and destroy Serralla's power source and then sneak away and return to Abarant? If it were possible at all... It finally hit home to Max that he might never see the Master again. He might die. Both of them could die. Dagan had taught him a final lesson in death, the lesson that he was mortal. Even the loss of his mother and brother in that stupid plane crash hadn't fully convinced him of it. He'd been too young and too inexperienced to believe that it could happen to him, that life was a gift that could be snatched away as easily as it had been given. Since meeting the Master, he'd courted death, tempted it, eluding Okasa with the Master, believing they were invincible, even when something serious happened. The Master had almost died once when Okasa had attacked him, and Max himself had come close a time or two. But they had both survived, and Max had gradually come to accept their invincibility.

As he and Chel and Jennara fled before their enemy, directly into danger because there was nowhere else to go, Max realized he had been lucky to survive this long. He might not survive this mission. It scared him, but it sobered him, too, and suddenly he felt years older than he had this morning. He didn't know if he could charge recklessly and unthinkingly into danger anymore. A part of him knew that if he survived, he wouldn't change all that much; he'd still take risks if he believed them necessary. But something was different, a part of him had been left behind. Was it his youth?

  


 

*****

 

  


John Peter McAllister left Thiel a few hours past midday and went looking for Dare and Arran, not because he was tired of the lady's company--he wasn't--but because in spite of her obvious charm and the fact that she was very good company, he felt a sense of growing uneasiness that he couldn't pin down, which seemed to be connected to Max. The concern he'd felt at breakfast had subsided during the morning and much of the afternoon, but it had never quite left him. Some of it was a natural concern. Max was his pupil, both gung ho and inexperienced, and likely to get into trouble for the same reason that mountaineers sought the great peaks, 'because it was there'. To make it worse, Max was heading into certain danger. The Master knew Max had learned a lot in the two years they'd been together, but Max was only one man, and he was going into the heart of Serralla's power. Their parting had been so difficult because he feared that Max might not come back, and Max had known it too. As the afternoon progressed, his attention drifted away from Thiel and came to rest on Max, and he knew it was time to go.

She had parted with him reluctantly, but she knew the stakes, too, and she voiced no protest.

On his way back to his own room he curled his fingers around the amulet and tried to understand the warmth that ran through it. Max? Was Max in jeopardy?

Suddenly, without warning, the amulet flared bright blue, the light shooting out between his fingers. Serralla? He sent a mental question but there was no response. It wasn't Serralla. Changing his direction, he went in search of Dare instead, knowing something was wrong.

The First Minister met him coming down the passage and his face was white and strained. His own amulet was blue, too, and the glow of its light made him look sick. He said, "Come to the Council Chamber," biting off each word as if they left a bad taste in his mouth.

Arran was waiting there, and he looked both upset and frightened. "Dare!" he cried when the Minister came in followed by McAllister. "What is it? I know it's something because of the amulet, but I can't sense magic. What's wrong?"

"They were captured this morning," Dare told him. "Hold. It's not the end of the mission. Chel felt it best to stay with their captors for most of the day since they were to take them to Crag Castle. When they grew near to the castle, he arranged an escape, using his magic."

Sensing something ominous and unpleasant lurking behind Dare's cool explanation, McAllister delayed it with a question. "How do you know all this?"

"Chel is my brother and a good magician," he explained. "As Serralla can mind touch with you, so can Chel with me. He just did. It was a brief contact--it's too draining for more than that, but he knew the amulets would flare and he felt he must reassure us that the mission continues."

"Why did the amulets flare?" Arran cut in. "You're not telling us everything, Dare. What went wrong?" Yesterday, the words would have been an angry accusation. Now he was just a man who wanted more information and who knew that the answers he sought would hurt them both. "It isn't Chel, is it?" he asked carefully.

"No," Dare replied, shooting a look at Arran that held some degree of astonishment. If they had met earlier, Arran had been discreet, and Dare looked surprised at the Prince's attitude. But as Arran had changed, so had he, and he said quickly, "It's not Max either, John." Then his voice softened and he said quietly to the Prince, "I'm afraid it's Dagan."

"Dagan! What..." Arran's voice trailed off and he looked stricken. "Not dead?" he pleaded as if Dare could somehow alter the man's fate.

"I'm sorry, my Prince," Dare continued, and, even after last night, McAllister was astonished at the compassion in the dark man's voice. "I know he was your friend. I wish I had better news for you. Chel is heartbroken that he couldn't prevent it."

"He would have if he could," Arran replied at once. "He can't blame himself. I know Chel. He wouldn't have risked Dagan's life. The man was his best friend."

"Yes," Dare agreed quietly. Then in a sharp and angry voice, "Damn that bitch, Serralla. We must find a way to stop her. This has gone on long enough. Perhaps it's well that your father isn't here. He'd want to be compassionate."

"You can't mean he'd spare her?" Arran demanded, horrified.

"Maybe not," Dare conceded. "But if there was a way to turn her, he'd try to find it first."

"So will I," McAllister cut in. "That would be the truest victory. If she would win by turning me, I might win by turning her. I don't think it's likely, but I have to try that first." He caught Dare's arm. "Listen to me. If I kill her for revenge, I'd be misusing my powers just as she's misused hers. I won't win that way even if I do beat her, and I think you realize that."

"I realize you are a fool," spat Dare. "She must be stopped and pay for what she's done."

"I agree," McAllister returned. "I plan to stop her, and she'll be punished. Losing her power is the greatest punishment she can imagine. She may lose her life. But I won't do it out of spite. I'll do it because it has to be done. Not just to keep Max safe, but to keep the world safe. I don't know how I'll do it yet, but I'm beginning to understand. It's not easy for you to trust, Dare, but try to trust me. What I do won't be a betrayal, although it might not suit your revenge."

Dare shot him a resentful look. "The problem is that I _do_ trust you, McAllister," he admitted angrily. "I don't like to trust. It has never come easy for me."

"And yet you trust Raban and your brother--and possibly Arran too? You trust at least four men, and you've done it the hard way. I'd say you're lucky. As for the rest, we'll wait and see. We can't do anything for Dagan, and I'm sorry. He was a good man. But if we do our job right, we can help Chel and Max and just possibly Lorrania too. Will _that_ suit you?"

"For now," Dare conceded reluctantly. He glanced over at Arran, who was staring at him in surprise. "What of you, my Prince? Does that suit you?"

"The end of the war will suit me," Arran replied passionately. "We've seen how Serralla operates, and I want no part of it for my father's people. A part of me wants revenge too, but I think the Master is right."

Dare's face hardened a little, but while Arran was trying to prevent hostility between them, so too was Dare. "I hope we have that luxury, my Prince," he said conciliatingly, getting up to pace about the room.

McAllister saw Arran watching him, the Prince making a conscious effort to contain his temper. "Is there anything we can do to help Chel?" he asked at length.

"I've already given him strength to channel into his power source," Dare replied surprisingly. "Because we're brothers, he can do that from a great distance. He'll need all his strength to face Serralla."

"I've been wondering," McAllister cut in, "how we'll contact Serralla when the time comes. When my amulet flared, I thought it was because of her, and I tried to reach her, but I couldn't get an answer. What guarantees do we have that she'll bother with us, especially if she feels her power source is threatened?"

"How hard did you try?" Dare demanded, halting his pacing before the Master and folding his arms across his chest.

"I just spoke her name in my mind," McAllister replied. "When the time comes, I'll need to concentrate on her with everything I've got. Unless she's a fool, she would know it was a distraction."

"I don't think so," put in Arran, leaning forward and taking the Master's arm. "You're not from here; you don't realize how strong the prophecy is. In a way, it would be a compulsion she couldn't resist. Her ego won't let her believe she could be defeated, and a part of her wants to crush you and prove that the prophecy is wrong or else that it doesn't refer to her. To do that, she has to face you, and so far, she doesn't know you well enough to believe you could win."

"Do _we?_ " The old sarcastic note was back in Dare's voice, but there was a hint of humor in his eyes.

Arran faced him challengingly. " _I_ do," he insisted. "And so do you, even though you don't want to admit it. Haven't you seen what he can do, Dare? I have."

Suspicion flared in the Minister's eyes, but he pushed it back. "Well, perhaps I have," he finally admitted. "It's an unfamiliar magic, though, and I've always been wary of strange magic." He smiled at Arran suddenly. "You're bristling like an attacking mur-wolf, my Prince. Don't worry. I know McAllister's value too."

"Oh well, then," Arran conceded. He added peevishly, "I wish you wouldn't call me 'my Prince' in that obnoxious voice all the time."

McAllister wisely kept silent, pretending to study his amulet.

"Indeed? But you are my Prince, and I am responsible for you in your father's absence."

"I'm capable of caring for myself. Look, I know I've come across as arrogant and obnoxious to you, and I'm sorry. It just seems petty in the face of all this." He sounded older somehow, and McAllister lifted his eyes to study Arran's face. The Prince continued, "Maybe it's because of Dagan. I've just lost a friend. The last thing I want to do is alienate another one."

Yesterday, Dare would have sneered at him, and McAllister wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't now, but Dare didn't let him down. "I understand," he said quietly, resuming his pacing until he reached the window, and staring out. "You--have my apology as well."

Arran grinned from ear to ear, but he managed to keep his voice level. "Well, then," he said, "I think we've got a better chance against Serralla now."

"You're an optimist, Arran," the First Minister accused him, and the Prince brightened at the use of his name.

McAllister rose. "If I'm to face her tonight, I need to prepare myself. Where shall we hold our confrontation?"

"In Chel's quarters, I think." Dare relaxed slightly now that the actual planning was beginning. "They are mildly warded, not enough to keep us out but enough to warn us if somebody tries to fling killing power at us."

"That will do," McAllister agreed. "I need privacy for a while." He wanted to make himself still, find his inner peace, shutting out all else. He had frightened Max that way once, causing Max to believe he'd had a heart attack, and it would be better if he could be alone now, rather than alarm half the castle. It wasn't that he particularly needed privacy, but it would aid him, and the others would come if his amulet flared.

"Won't you need us when you confront her?" demanded Arran as they left the Council chamber.

"Yes, I'll want you then," McAllister agreed. "But neither of us is ready. When the time comes, you'll know."

"You take this remarkably well," said Dare. "I thought your world didn't believe in magic."

"I don't close my mind to any possibility until I _know_ it's worthless," McAllister explained. "I've done things in my life I never thought I'd do, and I'm just a man. Why should we limit ourselves? One of my hardest tasks is teaching Max not to close his mind to the possibilities. Magic works here. I don't understand it, but it isn't necessary that I understand it. It works. That's enough for me."

"And you said _I_ was an optimist," Arran flung at Dare. "Listen to him. Maybe we can all learn something."

"Perhaps," conceded the Minister, always more skeptical. But he didn't totally disbelieve in the possibilities before him. He was learning, too.

Chel must have had pack rat blood, for his quarters held the most fascinating conglomeration of miscellany that the Master had ever seen before. There were tables and workbenches everywhere, cluttered with items at whose purpose McAllister couldn't even begin to guess. There were flasks of peculiar liquids, vials of mysterious powders, incense burners, bottles of wine--and a few of malt scotch from his own world, the Master noticed with amusement--and then there were things he didn't recognize at all. Chel, it seemed, collected rocks of all sizes and shapes, and he used them to weigh down documents and parchments that had been left strewn about the room. The map of Lorrania that they had studied was here with a fine dotted line drawn in to represent the journey of the Acolyte and his team, and with it were other drawings that might indicate the labyrinth under Crag Castle. Even the bed was cluttered with clothing tossed at random, a few spare pillows, a cage which held a stuffed bird with brilliant plumage, and four pairs of boots. In a clear space at the center of the room, Chel had drawn a pentagram, and the faintest trace of blue fire sputtered around the edges of it.

"Leave the pentagram alone," Dare warned him. "I think it's strongly warded."

"What would happen if we tried to enter it?" McAllister asked, unsure if he really wanted to know.

Dare only looked at him.

"Oh," said the Master.

On one wall were shelves containing more vials, some labeled with intriguing signs like 'muzzlewort' and 'bat's blood'. Not for the first time, McAllister wondered if the traditional trappings of magic in his world hadn't been given birth by dimension-traveling Lorranians who had set up shop there. It made sense. Since magic didn't really exist there, at least not the magic of fairy tales and legends, possibly the dichotomy between the two worlds was that one had turned to magic and the other to technology.

There were too many items in the room to study them all, and McAllister decided to examine them some other time, possibly when Chel was here to explain them. Instead, he selected a large, carved chair with a cushion to pad it, and cleared away the paraphernalia strewn there. "I'll stay here," he told his two escorts.

"When do you want us back?" Arran asked eagerly. He sounded like he couldn't wait for the confrontation, and McAllister shared a quiet smile with Dare at the Prince's impulsiveness.

"I'll join you for dinner," he promised.

McAllister waited until they were gone, then he did a few relaxing exercises to settle his nerves before he lay back in the chair. Settling himself comfortably, he closed his eyes and began the disciplines that would make him still. It took him longer than usual because of the tensions that jangled through him; worry about Max, regret for the loss of Dagan, concern for the safety of his new friends. Finally he felt himself relaxing into a tranquil state, and he drifted into it. In this condition, he could submerge his consciousness, and sometimes he could find answers for himself, truths he had known deep within but which hadn't crystalized yet. Even if he couldn't do that, he could discipline himself into a relaxed state, resting without sleep, opening his mind to meditation. He could hold this state for hours, although the trance he settled into wasn't as deep as the one in Clearwater the time Max had feared he'd had a heart attack. Max had come and shaken him and called to him, and McAllister had not roused from his trance, but even then a portion of his mind had realized that Max was someone he could trust, that Max would never hurt him. He was sorry that his discipline had frightened Max. Maybe until then, Max hadn't realized how much he was beginning to care for his mentor.

In the beginning, McAllister had hoped to keep Max at a distance, pupil to teacher only. He had let himself become close to Okasa, and Okasa had turned on him. Much safer to maintain a formal relationship. But it hadn't taken Max long to ease past his barriers. Max's concern back in Clearwater had touched him in ways he hadn't experienced for years. He had warned Max at the beginning that he was a cantankerous old man who had lived alone for a lot of years, and it had been true. In spite of the members of his sect, in spite of his growing fondness for Okasa and some of the others, a fondness that had been betrayed, he had been much alone, maintaining separate quarters, and keeping a distance from his pupils. When his own Master had died, he had withdrawn into himself, emerging only gradually for Okasa, his best pupil, Okasa who had demanded lessons with a rapacious drive, the kind of student every teacher wants. Slowly McAllister had opened his heart to Okasa, possibly closing his eyes to Okasa's fascination with the history of ninjutsu, with the glory of the old days. He wondered how long Okasa had been turning to the old ways before he had finally let himself see it. But he had seen it at last, and had tried to stop it. Too late. He wasn't sure what he would have done if Teri's letter hadn't arrived when it did. By then some of his pupils had tried to kill him, and he had evaded two more attacks before escaping to America, although not with impunity. When Okasa's shuriken had struck him in the back, it had severed his ties with the sect forever, and although he would never betray that which was good and vital within the sect, he could no longer condone his pupils' behavior. So he turned his back on Japan, on the life he had pursued with such singleminded devotion, and set off to make a new life with his daughter in America. But he couldn't find Teri. He found traces of her, he missed her by a few days, a week, a month. But he never found her.

Instead he found Max, and Max had gradually come to be the most important person in his life, the son he had never had. Parting with Max to let him go to Crag Castle was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

But Max had learned from him, learned as voraciously as Okasa had, yet with none of Okasa's dark motives. Max would have been embarrassed at the terminology, but he was good, a good person who wouldn't fail him, and who would take his ninja teachings in the right direction no matter the provocation. If anyone could survive the journey to Crag Castle, it was Max. Slowly reassuring himself of Max's gifts and abilities, McAllister found his inner peace again, and he sank deeper into his trance. He needed to strengthen himself this way to prepare for his confrontation with Serralla. No matter how powerful a magician she was, he doubted she possessed his mental disciplines. She would be good, but no one so power hungry could be completely disciplined, although she would have a rigid control. He could bypass that, could confront her at the heart of her essence and go on from there. He didn't know what would happen yet, but he was beginning to trust in the prophecy. It had to mean something. After years of isolation, he was finding new truths to believe in, his purpose in leaving the sect. Max's training and friendship, and now this, a chance to put things right in one world, if not his own.

Finding comfort in his meditation he deepened his trance still further.

  


 

*****

 

  


Rale was simply a household servant at Abarant, no one very important, but Rale had big dreams. Someday he would become important, a person everyone would look up to and admire, a person with power. But as years passed and he didn't advance, he grew bitter and hardened, hating Raban for failing to promote him, hating the Prince for having everything without having to work for it, hating the whole Protectorate because he had been unsuccessful there. It never occurred to him that his sullen manner and his unwillingness to work hard had been obvious to those over him and that he had remained in his lowly position because he had shown no reason to be elevated. Instead he brooded over his fate and his hatred festered inside him until he became a perfect pawn for someone like Serralla, who was looking for a tool within Abarant. Contacted mentally, not by the Lady herself but by one of her henchwomen, Rale soon realized that he could become important in the Lady's service, and he gave himself over to her dark designs. Now when the others sneered at him or excluded him from their recreation, he could hug to himself the knowledge that he was really important, that he was working undercover, even if they never knew about it. So far, the Lady had not asked for anything very serious, only to report what he overheard when he was serving dinner, and so he had learned that Raban had sent his son and his First Minister into the other world to look for an answer to the prophecy. Serralla had been pleased with this bit of information and had lavished praise upon him and promised material rewards, although they had not yet come. When it was all over, the Lady had said, he would come to live at Crag Castle and be very important. Wanting to believe it so badly, he did believe it, and he became more determined to prove to the Lady how loyal he was.

It hadn't been difficult, even for Rale, to learn that the Lady's main adversary was McAllister, the old man Dare and Arran had brought back with them. Rale didn't understand how an old man like that could hope to defeat his beautiful, bright Lady, so strong in her magic, but everyone believed it, and he'd begun to suspect that McAllister was a powerful magician. That had to be it. There was no other way he could defeat the Lady. He was probably storing his power in preparation for their confrontation. Rale was sure he could never get to the old magician's power source, but maybe he could get to the magician. After all, he was immune to most magic. The Lady could reach him, and her henchwoman had, but surely no ordinary magician could harm him. Rale believed he was of the royal Protectorate line and achieved immunity through his illegitimacy. Maybe he and Raban were even brothers. He should have power too, like his 'brother' did, should share rule with him.

In fact, if he could please the Lady, maybe she would give him the Protectorate for his very own. And how best to please her but by removing this foreign magician. Rale had eavesdropped earlier and learned that McAllister planned to spend the rest of the afternoon meditating in Chel's chambers. Chel was a powerful magician, and his quarters would be warded, but Rale was immune to most magic and only strong wards could stop him. Weak wards would slow him a little, but he could pass them. If McAllister were deep enough in a trance, maybe Rale could get close enough to slay him with his knife. It was dangerous, and if the old man was not meditating, Rale could either slip away again or pretend he had come to see if he wanted anything.

So he crept up the stairs and along the passage to Chel's room. It was unguarded, and Rale spent a moment sneering at the self-confidence of the old man and the Prince. They thought themselves so safe and secure. Fools! He would prove their stupidity. He would kill his Lady's enemy for her, and then everyone would realize how important he was.

The room was warded. Immune as he was, he could see the blue outlines, but they were faint and he knew he could pass them. Heartened by this knowledge, he slid his hand inside his tunic and closed his fingers around the hilt of his dagger. Soon now. Soon he would be important and the alien magician would be dead.

Cautiously he peered into the room and froze. There he was sitting in the big chair. His body was relaxed and his eyes were shut. He hardly seemed to be breathing. Rale sucked in a deep breath before easing across the threshold, feeling the tingle of the wards as he passed, but they did not flare into life and strike him down. He was immune! He must be of royal Protectorate blood. He had known it all along, and it was true.

McAllister did not stir as Rale tiptoed across the room toward him. Good. It was a deep trance. The first thing he would feel would be Rale's blade slipping up under his ribs and burying itself in his heart. The first thing he would feel and the last. Rale's blood surged through his body, as he reveled in the feeling of power that flooded him. He would be a hero, brave and triumphant. He would kill his enemy and flee in the confusion, and no one would ever guess that he had done it. After all, he was only meek, stupid Rale, who worked in the kitchen and sometimes served the castle guests. Who would believe he could do this thing?

Slowly he eased his blade from its sheath and out of his tunic. He crept right up to McAllister and stood before him. Power! The man wasn't breathing! Was he too late? Was the old man already dead? But no. There was a breath, a slow one, but there. His chest lifted slightly. A very deep trance. That was all to the good. He wouldn't sense the danger. Rale had seen trances before and he knew that nothing short of a violent shaking could rouse a magician before he wanted to come out of trance. Of course Lorranian magicians warded themselves thoroughly before trance, but this outworld magician had not bothered. Maybe he believed that Chel's wards would keep trouble out.

Carefully Rale lifted his blade, his fingers tightening their grip. Now. He would strike now. Biting back a cry of triumph, he struck, as fast as he could.

Even faster, the magician's hand shot out and fastened around his wrist. Suddenly the magician was out of his trance, wide awake, alert and very angry. "No, my friend," he said softly, and although his voice was mild, the fingers that dug into Rale's wrist were more powerful than the grip of a bruinate. Rale cried out as he felt something give, a bone in his wrist, maybe. His fingers opened of their own volition, and the knife clattered to the floor.

Stricken and shaking, he tried to break the grip. "Let me go," he quavered. "Let me go or my Lady will kill you."

"She plans to do that already," McAllister said. "I've seen you before, in the banquet hall. You're one of Raban's servants. How do they value treachery here?"

"It's not treachery," Rale insisted, terrified. "I am in the service of my Lady."

"A spy," McAllister accused him, and Rale began to tremble. The Lady might be the most powerful magician in the land, but she was not here and McAllister was. Rale shivered and prepared to die.

McAllister stood up--power, he was tall! He moved between Rale and the doorway. "How did you get in here?" he asked, his odd foreign accent making him sound all the more ominous.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked in a shaking voice.

"That won't be my decision. It will be Arran's. How did you get in here?"

"Mild wards don't stop me," he babbled, giving everything away, unable to hold back in the face of McAllister's steady stare. "I'm immune. I must be of the royal family. Raban's brother maybe. They're trying to cheat me out of my birthright."

"Are they? You're trying to cheat _me_ out of something that is rightly _mine_ \--my life. I tend to resent attempts on my life. Rale? That's your name, isn't it?"

How did he know that? Was he all-powerful, to take it from his mind? Rale shook with fear. "Please," he whined. "Please, don't kill me. I'll do anything you say. I'll tell you all about the Lady. Just let me live."

"You're pathetic, Rale. If I killed you, it would make this world a better place." His eyes bored into Rale's, and Rale quailed before him. His eyes! He shot out his power with his eyes, Rale knew. No one had eyes like that, so compelling and powerful. In a minute now he was going to cast a lightning bolt from his eyes, and Rale would die.

Instead, McAllister bent to pick up the knife, and in doing so, he loosened the grip on Rale's wrist. It was Rale's only chance and he took it. He couldn't get past McAllister to the door, but he wrenched his wrist free--power, it hurt!--and fled off to one side.

"No!" bellowed McAllister behind him. "Not there, you fool! Stop!"

But Rale plunged on, and then it happened. Wild and fiery pain burst through his body with the force of an explosion and he froze, looking down. A pentagram! He stood in the middle of a pentagram! Power! There was no hope for him now. As he watched, blue flames ran up his fingertips across his hands and up his arms. In their place was nothing but flame, and he was burning, burning. He could smell the charred flesh. "Lady! Lady, help me!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs, coughing and choking as the fire ate its way everywhere. His eyes blurred and vision faded, and the Lady never answered him. "Lady!" he called once more and then he died.

  


 

*****

 

  


McAllister stared in horror at the sight of Rale trapped within the pentagram, knowing there was nothing he could do to save the assassin, yet appalled by the ghastly death. For a few moments he saw the man's face working in pain, distorted by the flames, then the blue fire flared up brilliantly and when it died, there was nothing within the pentagram but ashes.

McAllister was still clutching Rale's knife when the door burst open violently and Arran flung himself into the room, sword at ready. When he saw McAllister standing there, he came to such an abrupt stop that in other circumstances it might have been comic. Then Arran saw the knife in the Master's hand. "What happened?" he cried urgently. "I know something's wrong." He sheathed his sword, his breathing still ragged, and tugged his amulet from beneath his tunic. It was blood red.

McAllister looked down involuntarily at his own. It was red too. "Someone tried to kill me," he explained quickly.

"Is that his knife? Where is he? Don't tell me you let him get away?"

"I was in deep trance when he came in here, and he got right up to me before I sensed him. I'm not hurt," he added, suddenly wondering if it was true. He looked down to see if he had been wounded, and he found a tear in his tunic, but when he lifted it aside, he discovered that the knife had gone no further than that. He wasn't marked. "I'm not hurt," he repeated. "But the assassin is dead."

"Dead! How?"

"The pentagram," Dare spoke from the doorway. "He went into the pentagram. Or did you put him there?" he asked McAllister. Striding forward, he halted at the edge of the design and stared down. "Ashes," he observed. "The pentagram did its work."

"You mean he was burned alive?" Arran asked in horrified distaste. "Master, did you--"

"I didn't kill him," McAllister denied. "He tried to run. When I saw where he was going, I tried to stop him. It was too late." His mouth curled in remembered horror and he rather felt that he would like to go someplace and be sick. He'd seen a lot in his life, but this was one of the worst deaths he'd ever had to witness.

"Power!" Arran swore. "Before your eyes! I don't envy you. Do you know who he was?"

"He was one of the servants. I think his name was Rale. He seemed surprised that I knew it."

"Rale!" Arran exclaimed, shocked and angry. "He's been here all his life. He's one of our house servants. It's true he wasn't a very good worker, but we kept him on because his family has served ours for generations. His father was a good man, my father says."

"Maybe so," McAllister told him, discovering the knife in his hand and setting it aside hastily, wiping his hand on his shirt. "But he wasn't. He served the Lady Serralla. She must have caused him to defect. Maybe she promised him power or wealth. I think he was a weak man who wanted to be important. The ideal tool of someone like Serralla."

"It's like her," Arran agreed.

But Dare shook his head. "No, Arran. I don't think it is. I doubt she'd send someone as ineffectual as Rale to try to kill John. If she wanted to be sure of McAllister, she would have done it better. I think he did this on his own, without her authority. Maybe he was trying to prove something or maybe he just wanted to feel powerful. I can't see her relying on someone like him for anything but information--and even then, I'm not sure I'd trust his information without verification. I remember him. A slimy little man. Not trustworthy."

"You're probably right," McAllister said. "He was almost pathetic."

"You're overly generous," Dare spat. "That pathetic little traitor almost killed you."

It took McAllister a moment to realize why Dare was angry. The Minister was concerned for him, not only for the safety of his country, but for McAllister personally. He didn't want to be concerned; he had never really learned to lower his guard to people. Discovering that McAllister had managed to pass his barriers, he was angry about it and, in his relief, he took out his anger on the nearest target, McAllister himself. The Master smiled gently. "But he didn't," he replied pacifically. "He couldn't have done it. I can handle his type."

"Don't be too sure," Dare replied, gesturing at the Master's torn tunic. "That does it. We'll have to watch you now. Serralla will know of this. If he invoked her name--"

"He called to her, but he called her the Lady, rather than Serralla. Does it matter?"

"It could," explained Arran. "Names are powerful. We don't like to speak her name too often. Her troops and subjects always call her the Lady. Too much use of her name can alert her to you, and open a channel for her power to reach you."

"But we've discussed her many times since Max and I arrived here," McAllister objected.

"It won't hurt you or Max since you're not from this world. Raban and Arran are safe because of their immunity to magic. Chel, of course, can ward himself, and, as for me, I would welcome the chance to confront her." His eyes darkened. "Besides, invoking her name is a different thing than talking of her. If Rale had done it, you would have been in more danger. The common people fear taking chance. You may have noticed it among the troops."

McAllister had. "Rale didn't use her name though," he assured them.

"We'll be more careful now," Arran insisted. "Either Dare or I will stay with you all the time until the confrontation is over." He looked at his amulet, which had resumed its normal color. "It's over for now."

"Yes," Dare agreed cynically. "Until the next time."

  


 

*****

 

  


It was dark when Max, Chel, and Jennara made camp near the entrance to the labyrinth. They reached the coast at twilight and reined in, and Max drew a surprised breath at the sight of Crag Castle perched on its high rock overlooking the Pacific--or rather, the Western Ocean. The castle looked unreal with its turrets and spires like something by Disney out of Camelot, and Max stared, wondering if people had crossed more readily between worlds in the past and if certain race memories had shown up in literature and fiction. The castle was easily defensible because it stood on a spit of land that jutted out arrogantly into the sea, joined by a neck of land narrow enough to be held by a small band against an army. The Duke of Erly, who had built this place, had been clever in his choice of locations. The town guarded the neck of land--any army would have to pass that first.

"We're supposed to get into _that?_ " Max demanded. "There's not a hope."

"Oh yes there is, Max," Chel had comforted him. "The labyrinth, remember?"

" It goes under the _water_?"

"Yes," agreed Jennara, grinning at him. "Don't look so upset, Max. It's not fallen on anyone yet."

"Maybe your Lady never wanted to keep anybody out as much as she does us," Max disagreed. "I don't like this very much."

Jennara smiled again. "I know you're not afraid, Max," she said. "But don't worry. I think the castle would collapse if the labyrinth did."

"That's supposed to be reassuring?"

There had been little opportunity for conversation on their race to the coast, but the further they went the more Max had realized that Jennara was coming to see the truth about her Lady. He saw disillusionment and bitterness in her face, and finally a cold determination. She said, "I'm going to help you. I should have seen it all along, but she _is_ evil. She's bent everything that matters and turned it around, and she can put a glamour over us so we don't notice. This _isn't_ the way to win battles. All that can happen if we take to magic is that another magician can come along and overturn everything. I'm afraid if too much magic is used too fast, there could be an end to the world. All that power has been bottled up and contained. If it were suddenly freed--"

"Like the bomb," Max muttered. When she had thrown him a questioning look, he'd said, "Never mind. Let's move on."

With Dragoris' band, they had crossed northern Rhun, watching the people in the villages they passed draw back from the soldiers in superstitious fear and awe, and the farmers and travelers on the road seek shelter as they approached. Rhun was one of the first countries to fall to the Empire, and there was still obvious bitterness among the common people there. It wasn't until they crossed the border into Calivera that they saw any trace of support for the Imperial soldiers, and that was guarded and cautious--almost deliberate, as if the people realized that they had better cheer as the soldiers passed if they knew what was good for them. They had been nearly to the Erly border when they escaped, and after that it had been strange. If Rhun had been demoralized and Calivera containing a puppet people, it was hard to know what to make of Erly itself. As a triumphant conquering people, there should have been some signs that the people considered themselves important, but there was none of that. No one dared to halt them because of Jennara's uniform, but no one seemed especially happy to see her either. As for Max and Chel, in their red priest's robes, there was a curiosity that they would be riding with a soldier, but not much else. Erly was uneasy, as if expecting trouble any minute and Max didn't like it there. The closer they got to Crag Castle, the unhappier Jennara looked. It was as if the Lady's power lay over the land, smothering it, and Jennara realized it, even before Chel suggested it to her. Max saw the startled recognition in her eyes, then she looked away and moved a little closer to Max. He didn't practice magic, and she seemed to find a non-magician more comfortable.

Now they had made a camp near the entrance to the labyrinth, and they shared a quick meal with little conversation. Max glanced at Chel as the magician ate and was glad to see that he looked more like himself again, not the pale, wasted figure he had seemed after the extensive use of his magic. Chel had muttered that part of his energy had come from his brother and part from resting without using magic. He would need it again soon, for even if there were no guards at the entrance to the labyrinth there would be heavy wards, and only Chel could pass them. Max could fight, but he couldn't get through wards like that, and it would take all their resources to enter the labyrinth, let alone find their way through the tunnels.

It was only when they finished eating that Max remembered what Jennara had said earlier, about the magician Maranna. Chel had known Dare's wife, and he would be able to tell if the Maranna Jennara knew was the same woman or not. Max didn't want to bring up the subject, but there was a chance that they might encounter her inside the castle and it would be better for Chel if he didn't come into contact with her unexpectedly. So Max set aside the flask of fruit juice--they hadn't lit a fire, so there was no tea, to Max's delight. "Chel," he began hesitantly, "there's something I want to talk about."

"You said something about trouble, and I didn't think you meant the escape." Chel looked at him, and Max sucked in his breath at the look in the magician's eyes. He was still grieving for his friend, and it hurt Max to see it. He hated to add to Chel's upset, but he had to.

"I was trying to get Jennara to see why we opposed her Lady," Max explained quickly, "so I told her about the way we think Serralla has gotten rid of all the magicians who might oppose her. I told her about Maranna." Max stopped to clear his throat. Finally he said, "Jennara says there's a magician named Maranna in Crag Castle and she works closely with Serralla. And she says this Maranna's from the Protectorate. I hope it's not Dare's wife, but maybe..."

Chel stared at him. "You've got to be wrong," he cried, then he lowered his voice automatically. "It can't be our Maranna," he insisted, then suddenly he shook his head. "I don't know. Jennara, what does she look like?"

"She's very small, not very tall, with tiny bones. She looks almost fragile, but she's as tough as a boot. Her hair's fair and she wears it short. She's sharp-featured, and I wouldn't call her pretty, but she can look very glamorous sometimes. She's hard. I know she's a good magician, but I used to wish the Lady wouldn't have her around. I see now that the Lady is even harder. She just concealed it better. Maranna never bothered."

"Is she--greedy?" Chel asked.

"Very."

"What color are her eyes?"

"Green."

"Well?" Max caught Chel's arm and stared at him. "D'you think it's the same woman?"

"It makes me sick to think so, Max. But it could be. Maranna was a better magician than I was, and she always liked that. She and I were never friends. Dare thought she was everything, the sun and moon and stars, and he would have seen no wrong in her even if she had started turning people into toads right and left. Of course Dare likes to think he's a hard man himself, and he tends to be sarcastic. Well, you've seen him. He was never this bad before Maranna died, but he's always kept his feelings protected. He would have liked a woman to stand up to him. A soft and simple sentimentalist would never have appealed to him."

"You mean Dare would have loved her even if she was hard and greedy?"

"I mean a clever and devious woman could have fooled him. Dare is devious, but he's vulnerable when he cares for someone. That's why he doesn't let himself do it often. He's intelligent, but he isn't very wise about people. He doesn't know that I never liked Maranna. He would have said I was jealous because she was a better magician than me, but that's not true. I'm good enough to suit myself, and I can ward better than anyone, even the Lady. I wasn't in competition with Maranna, but I would never have convinced my brother of that, so we never discussed it. I was sorry when Maranna died, but I'd always believed she got too ambitious with a spell and it killed her. If this is true, and she's here, she must have created a glamour to make it look like she was dead. Either that or she had brought someone in to substitute for her."

"You mean she killed somebody to pose as her body? And what about her kid? Larn?"

"I can't believe that even she would kill her own son," Chel denied, closing his eyes. "But Larn's body was recognizable." He shuddered. "Oh, power! She couldn't have done that. I can't believe that even the Lady would do something that evil."

"There's a boy in the castle who might be her son," Jennara said quickly. "It seems there's a boy named Larn, but I can't really remember which one he is. I don't get into the castle that often now--you see I didn't have any magic ability so the Lady wasn't interested in me. If I had, she'd have let me stay. She only sent me to the army when she was sure I lacked the gift. There's a boy about thirteen, a dark-haired child, sly and devious. I don't like him. He's one of those children who finds another child to blame when he gets into mischief."

"That can't be Larn," Chel objected. "He was a good boy, open and affectionate. Dare doted on him. "

"People change," said Jennara sadly. "I saw myself doing it sometimes when I was in the castle. Larn would have been about six when he came to the castle? That's young enough to change."

Chel dropped his head into his hands. He was silent for a long time, and Max felt like a creep for starting this.

Finally Chel looked up again. His eyes had hardened and for the first time, he resembled his brother. "Well," he said abruptly, climbing to his feet. "What are we waiting for? We've got a castle to break into."

He stalked off, and Max exchanged a helpless look with Jennara, then he jumped up, caught her hand and dragged her along with him in Chel's wake.

It was beginning.

  


 

*****

 

  


The darkness settled over the land, thick and palpable, bringing with it a kind of numb uneasiness that bothered Max. He wasn't usually the type to be worried by things he couldn't see, and the ominous sensation weighted down his spirit like a miasma of sorrow and made him want to turn and flee or else just give up everything. He found himself struggling to take even one more step. The air grew thick and heavy and it became hard to breathe. Then Chel must have noticed for he reached over and lay a hand on Max's shoulder. The heavy darkness eased a little.

"It's the Lady," Chel explained quickly. "She's cast one of her spells here. It's something to discourage casual travelers from coming this way."

"Whatever it is, it works just great," Max grumbled, embarrassed because he had fallen for it. He glanced at Jennara beside him and found her looking tough and impatient. "Why doesn't it bother _her_?" he demanded accusingly.

"Conditioning, I should think. She's lived in the castle. The Lady hasn't noticed she's disillusioned with her charms. So the spell doesn't touch her. I'm glad we've got her. We might need someone who doesn't fall under the glamours here."

Jennara leaned closer to Max. "It doesn't last much longer, Max," she consoled him. "You'll see."

She was right. A few steps further and they came out of the solid darkness into a perfectly normal night. Max felt much better. Overhead the stars were visible again, and a little breeze came up carrying with it the salt tang of the ocean. They had to be close.

There was a faint sound ahead of them, something Max would have ignored or even failed to notice before his ninja training. Now he stopped dead and caught Chel's arm. "Ssh. I think somebody's waiting for us."

"Castle guards," Jennara breathed. "She's set a watch."

Chel looked visibly discouraged, but he followed Max forward. "What're you going to do?" he demanded, and Max realized that Chel, who could get through any wards and who had calmly rescued them from a small army was afraid of this new threat. But he didn't hang back, and Max respected that.

"I'm going to get them out of our way," Max answered. "Jennara, you can keep an eye on Chel. Stay here, Chel. We'll need you for the wards."

Chel gave him a grateful look. "Be careful."

"It's my middle name." Max winked at him, then he tiptoed forward, moving with the stealth that McAllister had patiently taught him. As he drew nearer, he could hear the soft mutter of voices, and listening carefully, he decided there were two of them. He crept closer and peered through a screen of bushes. There were two of them all right, both bigger than he was, wearing armor like Jennara's.

Something touched his arm and he almost had a coronary. Whirling, he found Jennara standing there making shushing sounds. "I thought you might need a backup," she breathed. "I'm well trained."

It was true. Max was used to girls who, while independent and competent in their own areas, were not skilled fighters, but Jennara was in the military, and here in Lorrania, the women were trained equally with the men. He trusted her too; he thought he'd learned enough from the Master to be able to judge people more accurately than he had before. Jennara wasn't about to betray him.

He whispered a few hasty plans and Jennara nodded. Then they moved together, circling around to come at the soldiers from different directions. Max made his move first, coming forward in two quick flips, the last one bringing him up to the nearest guard, whom he disabled with a kick to the head. The man dropped like a stone and lay unmoving. Even as his companion gaped blankly at this sudden apparition out of the night, he stiffened and the breath went out of him in a long whistle. Slowly he collapsed and Jennara emerged from behind him, pulling her sword free and wiping it on the grass. Max gaped at her. He hadn't meant to kill the guards, but Jennara was a trailed soldier and she must have interpreted their plans that way.

Now she knelt over Max's guard. "He's not dead," she reported. "But he's out of it. I don't think he'll wake up right away, but we might as well tie him." She did it efficiently and dragged him into the bushes, coming back for the body of the man she'd killed.

"I'll get Chel," Max offered and returned a few minutes later with the magician. "Now," he said, "Where's the entrance? Let's get this over with."

"There," said Chel unhesitatingly, pointing to a blank rock face that Max would never have recognized, although he could see the faintest hint of green fire there now he looked at it carefully. Green? Maybe each magician warded in a different color.

"Stay back!" cried Chel sharply when Max would have gone closer. "These are very strong wards. Dangerous, too. She does it a little differently than I do."

"Different how?" asked Max.

"With my concealment wards, you could walk into them and only think you'd bumped into a rock wall," Chel explained. "But with these, you walk into them and poof! Instant incineration. Rather like invading someone's pentagram."

"You mean if somebody bumped into that spot, they'd get crisped up?" Max asked uneasily. He glanced over his shoulder at Jennara almost as if it were her doing.

"The Lady doesn't leave things unguarded," Jennara defended herself uneasily. "It'll be dangerous, Max."

"Thanks. I needed that."

Chel went to work on the wards, although at first he didn't seem to be doing anything. When Max shifted to get a better look, he saw Chel's eyes were closed and he was concentrating hard, his face scrunched up. As if he had seen the words threatening to burst from Max's lips, he lifted a hand for silence and then returned to his concentration. Finally, when Max felt ready to explode with impatience, Chel opened his eyes and lifted his hands, catching blue fire with them and tossing it back and forth. When the fire was brighter than the green warding that slowly became visible, Chel smiled and moved forward, hands extended, until he was almost touching the wards. Then he projected the fire slowly, resolving it into a cone shape, the point aimed at the wards. Where they touched, sparks flew, but after the first moment, they dimmed and Max could hardly see either the blue or the green. What he could see was that the blue cone was growing steadily bigger, pushing back the green warding around it, steadily enlarging the hole into the mountain as the pointed end widened. Where the blue extended, Max could now see a dark tunnel growing out of the rockface. It was eerie. Chel worked steadily until his cone had grown big enough for someone to climb through, then he muttered, "Complete." Turning to Max and Jennara, he said, "Quickly now. Climb through. Max, you first, and keep your eyes open. Don't touch the wards."

Max obeyed, turning back to give Jennara a hand. Chel followed, holding his red robes about him fussily. They stood in a dark place, silent and ominous, and Max could feel the weight of centuries pressing overhead. These passages were old. As a boy, Max had once visited Rome with his family, and he'd been down in the Catacombs. These passages gave him the same ominous feel of countless centuries as the Catacombs had.

"Won't she notice her wards are down?" Jennara demanded in a whisper.

"No. They're not down," Chel reassured her. "I just made a little tunnel, but I didn't strain her wards past bearing. It's the best way to pass dangerous wards safely. I'm going to close my 'mole' now. When I do, it'll be very dark in here. Max, you can find your way in the darkness. That's what you and the Master both claim. So I want you to take the lead."

"It's dangerous in here," Jennara said. "There are a lot of tunnels crossing and crisscrossing each other. Some are dead ends. There are pits. There are places where only a thin layer of earth covers a hole that drops down to the ocean. There are guardians."

"Guardians?" Max asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know.

"Beasts and illusions," she explained.

"I don't suppose you know the way?"

"No. We sometimes played in the upper reaches but we had glowboxes and we weren't allowed to come this far. Do either of you have a glowbox now?"

"Wouldn't do much good here," Chel said quickly. "Her magic is very strong in here. It might overwhelm a glowbox. I have a small one. Let's try it."

He removed the glowbox from his pack and lit it. It gave off a faint and piteous glow. "Well, there it is," Chel muttered deprecatingly. "I didn't think it would work. Glowboxes are weak magic."

He turned then, passing the glowbox to Jennara, and waved his hands a few times at the wards. The blue cone shrank down to a tiny spot no bigger than a fly. "We'll leave that," Chel announced. "Easier to expand it again than to build a new mole when we're ready to leave."

As the mole narrowed, darkness swooped down until they finally stood in almost total darkness. The glowbox didn't do much more than illuminate Jennara's hands and face. It would never be enough to guide them through the maze. Max decided to leave it lit to keep them from bumping into each other, and squared his shoulders. "Right," he said, "You're the magician, Chel. How am I supposed to tell which is the right passage?"

"How would the Master do it?" Chel asked simply. "I don't understand ninja magic. You'll have to use that. I better not try mine here."

"Okay, I think I get it," Max replied. He knew that the Master could do this far better than he could, but the Master had his own tasks to complete. They wanted to reach the castle, and the castle was high. He had seen it looming above them before they reached the wards, towering on its high spit of rock. So eventually they'd need to go up. Max closed his eyes, concentrating. The Master had once told him that he could tell if a tunnel went on or came to a dead end by a feel to the air, a kind of resonance. Max had never been very good at it, but now, standing in this dark passage, he finally began to understand. He had found his way out of the dark ship and past two enemies in pitch darkness the time his father's secretary had been kidnaped. This was the same sort of thing, but on a much bigger scale. He could do it. He _could_.

"Come on," he said as he led the way deeper into the tunnel.

At first, it was easy. The tunnel was smooth and straight and didn't branch. Max discovered that the glowbox was more harm than help, creating unnatural shadows and making ominous shapes loom out of the passage before them, so he told Jennara to put it in her pocket. It might be useful later. He adopted a shuffling gait to keep from stumbling over rocks on the floor, and he stretched out a hand and ran it along the wall as he walked. The others followed him, and occasionally a muttered curse floated forward as someone banged a shin or stubbed a toe. Max could almost imagine he felt the pull of Crag Castle, and he wondered if he were responding to the ancient prophecy that had brought him here through the Gateway between worlds. This was why he had come. Maybe he had a natural affinity for it.

That was when the tunnel branched ahead of him. Suddenly, although he couldn't see it, he could feel two tunnels. Air struck him from both directions, and he froze, testing first one and then the other. One of them had a tang of salt air. Could he dismiss that one out of hand? The other was free of the sea, but there was a dead feel to it, as if the air came a short distance and no further. He called for the glowbox and held it up before the tunnel. "Wait," he instructed the others, then he plunged down the tunnel with the dead air.

A minute later, he halted, frowning. This was the right tunnel, but it was dangerous. Something lurked ahead of him in the darkness, something black and ominous and malevolent, and if he went this way, he would have to face it. He didn't know if it were magic or not, but it was something at least as strong as a mur-wolf and just as deadly. Beyond it, he could feel, faint and tantalizing, the pull of the Castle, the need to go on, the urge to complete his mission, and he knew that this was the only way to the Castle. But first he would have to fight a guardian.

He hurried back to the others. "All right, this way. But stay behind me. And, Jennara, give me your sword."

"Why, what is it?" she asked as she passed it forward obediently.

"Something--one of your guardians, I think. It's gonna be tough."

Chel shut his eyes a moment, muttering, "Why wasn't I born a baker? They never have to face anything worse than cakes and pies."

Max grinned at him, and Chel opened his eyes. "It's likely to be very nasty, Max," he said.

"Yeah, I kinda figured that."

"It won't be magic either," Chel added, "At least not the kind I could fight. That would make it too easy. Otherwise we could have come through here with a magician a long time ago."

"I know," Max replied. ''I'll do it. Just warn me if any magic comes up. I don't think I'd walk into any wards, but you never know."

After about twenty feet, Max came to a dead stop. "Wait," he called back over his shoulder. Then he froze, holding the glowbox near the floor. Immediately in front of him was a pit covering almost the entire floor. "I just came through here," he muttered shakily.

"The holes come and go," Jennara said. "That's why we weren't allowed to play here as children. The passage guards itself."

"Oh, great." Max was sure his face had gone dead white. "Okay, folks, we'll take it nice and slow." Carefully they edged past the pit, pressed up against the wall. Max held out the glowbox but the puny light wasn't enough to illuminate the bottom. Once Chel almost slipped and kicked a pebble loose, and it seemed to fall forever before they heard a faint, distant 'plop'.

"Careful," Max cautioned.

"I _am_ being careful," Chel shot back uneasily. "I don't like this."

Max and Jennara exchanged a quick grin, Max wondering if Chel had grumbled for that very purpose.

They passed the pit and Max resumed the lead. It wasn't long before they came to another fork in the tunnel. This one was easy. Max could tell without really thinking about it that one of the tunnels was a dead end. The other was narrower and might have looked to the casual eye that it was the wrong one, but Max knew better. After the first few feet, this one widened out a bit, and Max heaved a faint sigh. The sense of evil was closer now. Soon the guardian would appear.

When it finally did, they had been inside the tunnels for almost half an hour, and Max had taken them around two more pits and over one of them. The only way to cross it was to jump. Max and Jennara had done it easily, and Chel had followed, complaining bitterly all the way. Maybe the man really was a practicing coward, thought Max with a grin, but he didn't really believe it for Chel never hesitated, just grumbled.

Max had just led them past another junction when something moved ahead of them, and everybody froze. A deep throated roar rumbled out of the darkness and in the faint glow of the box, something moved. Max took a firm grip on Jennara's sword and stepped forward to meet it.

It was big and black and hairy, and it looked a little like a bear. The snout was longer and narrower than a bear's, though, and its ears were bigger, standing up like a terrier's. It had enormous fangs, dripping with saliva, and there were huge claws at the end of its massive paws. "What the hell is that?" Max demanded in an irritated voice.

"It's a bruinate," Jennara told him. "I'll have to help you. It takes more than one person to kill one."

"Maybe I don't have to," Max realized suddenly as his hand dove into his pocket. He flung the smoke bomb directly at the creature and it burst at the beast's feet. Smoke billowed up, and Jennara cried, "Magic! No, Max!"

But the animal coughed and choked, then sagged a little. Max threw a second pellet for good measure, and a moment later the creature collapsed heavily to the ground and lay still.

"It's not magic," said Max hastily. "Only ninja magic. It's a smoke bomb. It's science. The gas makes the bear--uh, bruinate--unconscious. We won't have a lot of time to get past him."

"It still sounds like magic to me," Jennara insisted unhappily, but she crept past the bear, dagger in hand. When Max returned her sword to her, she gripped it nervously, prepared for attack.

"It's not the Lady's magic," Chel assured her, following, a grimace of distaste on his mouth as he eyed the motionless bruinate. "But it's magic all the same."

"No, it isn't," Max replied. "Somebody in our world once said that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic--or something like that. In our world, it's not magic at all. The Lady won't feel it, I promise."

"I hope you're right," Jennara said. "I'm beginning to agree with Chel. I don't like this either."

They advanced further into the tunnels and now, as they went, they could tell that they were climbing. The passages twisted and turned and sometimes seemed to double back upon themselves, but Max was sure that they were steadily approaching their goal.

That was when the pit opened beneath his feet, and with a shriek, he felt himself falling.

  


 

*****

 

  


As night drew nearer, John Peter McAllister experienced a steadily growing sense of Serralla's presence. He didn't say anything to Arran and Dare, who insisted upon staying with him once they'd eaten the evening meal; instead he shut the feeling up within himself and watched the two of them as they played some variant of chess. The moves seemed similar in principle to the game as it was played at home, but it was not quite the same; the pawns had more flexibility, but they could only take a piece by trapping it between two of them. It was clear from the beginning that Dare was very good at it and that Arran thought he was better than he really was, making sudden, impulsive, and sometimes inspired moves that didn't quite compensate for Dare's reasoned play. McAllister realized quickly that Dare would win, but if Arran knew he was losing, he was cheerful about it and didn't try to overcompensate by acting the arrogant princeling that Dare found so irritating but instead made more of an effort to think and plan the moves ahead of time.

Serralla didn't contact him, but he felt her prodding around the edges of his consciousness, possibly checking to discover who was with him and what their abilities were. He knew the time he had prepared for had come, and wondered if it was right for them to meet her in Chel's rooms. There might be something she could find there to use against them. But Dare and Arran seemed to feel it was the appropriate place. They had erected a barricade of furniture between them and the pentagram, feeling that they didn't want to risk being forced there by accident.

Finally McAllister turned to the others and said softly, "It's time." Both of them turned toward him, Arran wide eyed and excited, and Dare with a cool, expressionless face, although his eyes burned with something more. Excitement as great as Arran's. Determination to defeat the Lady. Cold anger at the thought that she might possibly win. And a promise to give the Master whatever support he could, even though he had no magic of his own. Dare gave his loyalty grudgingly, but once he gave it, it was given forever. McAllister was gratified to realize that he had won it.

*Defender?* Serralla was calm and collected. *I am ready for you. I waited until your pathetic little troop made its way into my labyrinth. I allowed them to enter and try to prove their abilities, and they came very far, but not far enough. Witness this, Master.*

Suddenly McAllister had a clear and vivid picture of Max, Chel, and an unfamiliar young woman, very pretty in spite of her military attire. They were passing the body of a huge, bearlike creature, Chel with a look of horrified distaste, while Max said something about technology being indistinguishable from magic. McAllister felt the room fade around him and reached out for his touchstone, his image of Teri, to protect him from illusion as Chel had taught him. As soon as he did, he realized that this was different from the illusions Chel had sent him, not just in degree but in its very nature. He knew without being told that Serralla was sending him not an image but a real picture of Max and the others.

He watched the helplessly, able to see them clearly in spite of the darkness of the passage. They had obviously reached the labyrinth and had come some ways into it, but Serralla knew they were there. He realized that he must distract her, take her from her surveillance. He had to do it now.

*Watch this, Master.* Serralla's contact held sudden icy humor, and as McAllister watched, a pit opened beneath Max's feet and he fell into the darkness.

"MAX!" Even as McAllister cried out, the picture vanished and he saw only darkness. He was aware of Arran and Dare grabbing him, asking questions. "I'm all right," he said quickly, brushing them away. He had to face her alone. But Max...Max was dead! He had fallen to his death--no, that wasn't true. Max had fallen, but there was no telling how far. If Max had died, Serralla would have taken great pleasure in showing him Max's broken body. She hadn't done so. She had ripped the vision away before its completion, which could only mean that Max had survived. McAllister realized that he still had the link with her and she was still there, although her mind was on something else at the moment. Using her distraction, McAllister completed the image of Teri in his mind, making it as strong and real as he could. Finally Teri stood before him in his mind, as Chel had shown him, almost as real as Arran and Dare, almost as much present as they were.

 _Hello, Teri_.

It was as if she smiled at him.

*Serralla!* It was a command, an order. Now he would summon her, make her respond to his need. He would not ask her to see Max. If Max were really dead--god, no, please, not that--if Max were really dead, McAllister would have to wait and mourn him when this was finished. Chel and the girl might still make it through the labyrinth, might still find and destroy the power source. McAllister blocked that thought from the Dark Lady. Setting it aside, he stretched out with his thoughts and pictured Serralla. Although he had never seen her before and knew nothing of her looks, she was suddenly before him and he could see her as clearly as if she were in Chel's chamber with them.

The Sorceress was a tall woman with dark hair that she wore straight, bound back from her face in a long tail that reached to her waist, confined with leather thongs. She wore emerald green, and her eyes were the same color, full of fire like twin emeralds in the firelight. She had an aristocratic face with high cheekbones and a proud forehead. Her mouth was firm and she was not smiling. He could see something in her eyes that might have been fear, or simply impatience. She held beside her a dark haired boy of perhaps twelve, who looked up at her with huge, frightened eyes. As McAllister watched, she said, "Come," and a door opened to admit a tall dark-haired man, lean and muscular, with a hard mouth and cold eyes.

"M'lady?" The man bowed to her then raised his eyes, the hint of an insolent caress filling them. It annoyed her.

"Yes, Brin," she said coolly like an accusation. "I expected you earlier."

"Dragoris just returned and I had to hear his report."

"You think I don't already know what he had to say?" She twisted the boy's arm slightly and he winced and made a faint sound of pain, biting it off quickly in hopes that she wouldn't notice. "They secured the prisoners; the prisoners escaped. They are in the labyrinth already. Do you think to second guess _me?_ You will obey me as always. Now this is what you must do. You must take the boy and go to the castle entrance to the labyrinth. He is the one thing that can stop Chel from interfering with me. I have put my power beyond his reach. I have fooled everyone. Did you think me fool enough to overlook this threat? Well, go on." She shoved the boy forward.

He went, evidently less afraid of Brin than of Serralla, although he didn't look very happy about it. He turned with a sudden show of defiance and said coldly, "I know what you're trying to do. I could kill myself."

"I think not. Brin knows that if you die, he dies, and he values his life. He will guard you with every skill he possesses."

"I'll find a way," the boy insisted, not defiantly but with weary determination.

"In front of the Protectorate magician? His name is Chel, and he will be here soon."

When sudden hope flared in the child's eyes, Serralla crushed it. "He is not so powerful as I. Remember that, boy."

"I'll tell him everything."

"If you do that, I will kill him slowly before your eyes, and I will make him believe it is your wish that I do so. You know me, boy. You know I can do it. You know how powerful I am. You know that I alone, of all the magicians in Lorrania, have been able to utilize a human power source. Yes, and repressed your magic at the same time. I never trained you. The risk would be too great, and if you tried to teach yourself, I would have known. You are untrained and untapped, and you are the source of my power. Think you that Chel can destroy _you_ , boy? No, he will not dare." She smiled suddenly as if at a private joke.

The boy sobbed once before he could bite it back, then he controlled himself and faced her defiantly. "I hate you."

"Good. Hate fuels my power." She laughed with cold humor. "Go now, boy. Brin will guard you with his life. And Brin is the best fighter in Lorrania."

McAllister watched the scene unfolding before him, knowing it was real and that Serralla had shown it to him in order to demoralize him as she had enjoyed doing to the child. But there was something here that McAllister didn't understand, and he withdrew from the link. "Quick before she contacts me again. Serralla has a living power source, a child. She's gambling that Chel won't kill a child to destroy her power."

Arran swore but Dare said sharply, 'What child?"

"I don't know. She didn't use a name. He hates her and has threatened suicide to defeat her. He's a brave boy."

"In order to use a living power source, she would need a child who had magical ability to a great degree but who had never really been trained. No parent would permit his child to be used so because of the risk. Should the magician die violently, the power source could be killed or go mad."

"I don't suppose she asked permission," McAllister observed wryly. "She takes rather than gives. Dare, can you try to reach Chel?"

"I don't know. He can reach me, but I don't have the power myself. I can respond. If he's involved in something else, if his mind is absorbed in what he's doing, I couldn't break through. Did--did she do something to Max?"

"She showed me Max falling into a pit. She stopped the image immediately. It was real," he added hastily when Arran made to speak. "Not an illusion. But she didn't show me his death. so I hope he's still alive. Chel might be trying to rescue him. Wait, but don't wait long to contact him. He needs to know what he'll be facing. Serralla sent Brin with the boy to wait for him."

"Chel will do what he must to save Lorrania," Dare insisted coldly.

Arran threw him an appalled look. "Would you say that if it were Larn?" he asked.

"Larn doesn't enter into this, my Prince." The ice was back in Dare's voice, and Arran looked horrified as he realized he had made a major blunder. He should have known better than to mention Dare's son to him, although the Master could understand why he'd done it.

"We can debate this later," the Master told them sharply. "Now I must face Serralla, and I would rather do it with the two of you united, if you think you could manage it."

Arran looked ashamed, but Dare's face was remote. He said, "Do what you must, McAllister. We're here as we're expected to be."

As he plunged into renewed contact with the Empress of the West, the Master hoped it would be good enough.

At first he couldn't find her, then he calmed himself and discovered her waiting for him. She smiled winningly at him. *Master,* she purred, and McAllister knew that she was a woman who would call no one 'Master' and mean it. *I'm glad you're back. Did you enjoy spying on me? Don't you like my power source? A fine lad. In a few more years when he is a little more grown up, I shall enjoy him even more. As for now, it is enough to hold him in my power in all his innocence.*

*I don't believe you hold him as tightly as you like to believe, Serralla.*

*What, no lectures? No insistence that I've done wrong to use the boy so? You draw power from your student--or rather,* she added with amusement, *you did. He's gone now, of course. But you found strength in training him to your ways. Do you think I could let him live? He gives you power--oh, it's a voluntary arrangement, not the same as mine with the boy, but you take from him all the same.*

There was some truth in that, although not the way she meant it. Training Max as a ninja did give him satisfaction, but it was not power as Serralla defined it, and he was comfortable with that. She couldn't shock him with her insinuations.

He probed delicately to see if he could sense Max. He was sure he'd know it if Max were really dead. He didn't know how much of that was wishful thinking, but he thought he could tell. His ninja training would guide him, especially now as he sought answers inside, as he found the still place in his center, his _chi_. There was no sense of loss there; nothing had been ripped apart. Maybe Max still lived. But he could only stay alive if McAllister defeated this woman with vast powers and unlimited confidence.

*Max and I give each other strength,* he told Serralla confidently. *It's hardly the same thing as robbing an innocent child, and you know it.*

*Do I?* The flash of disappointment across her features was so fleeting he was not sure he hadn't imagined it, but he felt sure it had been there. She hoped to turn him back, and each time he foiled that plan, he would gain strength. Even when she had tried to convince him she had killed Max, he had been shocked and upset, but he had not felt the evil pull of hatred and revenge that she wanted from him. He had to maintain that calm certainty, and it would not be easy.

  


 

*****

 

  


As Max felt himself falling, he had a fleeting awareness of the Master, but there was no time to sort out that impression if he was to survive. He grabbed for the sides of the pit, but they were just out of reach. Then, even as he went for the rope that was wrapped around his waist, the one with the grappling hook on the end, he felt something amazing. Suddenly, as if he had slammed into an invisible barrier, he stopped falling and hung suspended in midair.

"Hurry," called Chel urgently. "I can't do this forever."

Max unwound the rope in record time and tossed the hook up to the tunnel. Jennara caught it and hooked it on a rock.

"I've got to let you go," Chel warned him, and Max felt his body go heavy again. All at once he was hanging on the end of the rope. Shaken, he scurried up the rope and out of the pit. For a moment, he lay gasping on solid ground, then he remembered just how 'solid' the ground really was and he stood up in a hurry.

"Thanks, Chel," he muttered breathlessly. "I thought I was dead meat that time."

"Well, don't do it again," Chel replied, his voice not quite steady. "My nerves can't stand that kind of strain. I don't have enough power to keep it up."

Max clasped Chel's hand in a grateful handshake. "I hope you won't have to," he said quickly. "The Master's here."

"Here!" Chel glanced around, appalled.

"No, you idiot. He's with Serralla. Their confrontation's started. I sensed him there." Max's face crumpled into worry. "She showed him my fall. That's why she caused it, to make him think I was dead."

"She couldn't show him your death," Jennara reminded him. "Because you're alive. If he's everything you say he is, he won't be fooled."

"I hope not," Max murmured, concerned. "I hope not, Jennara."

"We'll use the rope." Her practical tones cut across his worry. "Tie ourselves together like mountaineers. If the Defender is at work, we'd better hurry."

"We won't have much time," Chel agreed. "And she'll have Brin. I think you'll need to fight him, Max. That's the real reason why Arran tested you back in your own world, to see if you could stand up to Brin."

"Oh. Great." Max heaved a resigned sigh. Maybe this was one of the reasons he'd met the Master in the first place, so he could learn ninjutsu in order to fight Brin. He didn't like the idea of being a pawn in a larger game but, if he were, he was glad he knew how to fight. McAllister had not taught him so he could fight but instead how to learn to deal with crises in other ways, but if he must fight Brin, he would. Brin was sure to be good, but he wasn't a ninja, and Max felt a little surge of hope that with his skills he could manage Brin. Of course Brin would have a few tricks of his own, but Max had gone hand to hand with Arran a few times before they left Abarant to get the feel of fighting in this world. Even though Arran was taller than he was by a good three inches, Max had still managed to win, which irritated the Prince. But now Max grinned, for surely Brin would use techniques similar to Arran's.

 _Overconfidence, Max_. He glanced around sharply because it was almost as if the Master had spoken to him cautioning him, and he shook his head disgustedly. Ninjas weren't invincible. Max only wished they were.

They resumed their journey, climbing steadily upward, although the passages twisted round and round. Jennara insisted more than once that they were lost, but Max always shook his head. "No. I know where I'm going." He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. It was a feeling he had, a certainty that each of his choices was correct. He was getting scary. He remembered the times the Master had known things that he couldn't have known, had sensed something that wasn't really there, had pulled off some kind of ninja mumbo jumbo, and he'd told the Master he was getting scary. Now Max was doing it himself, and for the first time he began to understand what the Master had talked about when he'd spoken of focusing his _chi_. If that was what Max was doing now, he must finally have it right. He'd learned how to fight easily enough, but he hadn't been quite able to reconcile the more mystical elements of ninjutsu. Now he finally understood that it wasn't really so much mysticism as the result of practice and training and learning to be in tune with oneself and one's surroundings.

Chel and Jennara must have sensed what he was doing for they kept quiet as they penetrated more deeply into the labyrinth. Only Chel was alarmed when another 'guardian' suddenly burst from a side passage, this time a mur-wolf. Max was ready for it, realizing even as he threw the knife that he had sensed the beast's presence for some time and had conditioned himself to wait and strike when the time was right. As the beast fell, Jennara reacted according to her training and pounced on it quickly, cutting its throat with an economical gesture and jumping back to avoid its death throes and its spurting blood.

Chel took a quick step backward to the end of the rope. "Nasty," he mumbled with a grimace. "I don't like this at all. How much longer, Max?"

"We're getting close," Max replied. "It won't be long now." He wondered if Brin would be waiting for him and speculated again on Brin's fighting ability. Knowing Serralla, she was bound to have chosen a consort who didn't fight fair. Max was determined to beat him anyway; he had to. At least he had to give Chel enough time to discover Serralla's power source. It certainly wasn't going to be waiting for them when they left the labyrinth.

They climbed for another twenty minutes or so, ducking around several pits that appeared almost under their feet. Once, one would have taken Jennara with it if they hadn't been roped together. As it was, when Jennara went over the edge, Chel was knocked off his feet and fell hard, muttering curses, and it was left to Max to brace them both by looping the rope around a spur of rock and hauling the soldier up by main force.

She shook her hair back from her face and touched Max's arm. "Thanks."

"Any time."

But there were no more crises as Max guided them unerringly to the entrance to Crag Castle. The glowbox still gave out its weak and intermittent light, but it was bright enough to show them a heavy, carved door with metal ribbing and a vast ring in place of a doorknob. Max put his ear to the door to listen. The wood was too thick to allow sound to pass through it, and all he got was a hollow roaring sound like one hears when listening to a seashell. Max stretched out with his other senses and felt a presence just beyond the door. "Guard maybe," he whispered to the others. He untied his rope and rolled it up again as the others freed themselves. "Chel, you stand back. Jennara." He passed her knife back to her. "You take this. I've got my own weapons." He took out a shuriken. It felt right and familiar in his hand.

Taking a deep breath, he lay his hand upon the ring and pulled with all his might. Expecting the door to be locked or at least braced against them, he almost fell when it swung open easily, perfectly balanced on well-oiled hinges. Righting himself, he stepped forward ready to attack, Jennara at his side. He realized that her loyalty was to him now rather than to Serralla or even Erly, and that she would back him no matter what he did. Chel shuffled along in their wake, more to avoid the dangers of the labyrinth than because he looked forward to the challenge that awaited him.

Two people waited for them, and neither of them were guards. One was a tall, dark man clad all in black, with icy cold eyes. He had a body like Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the leather of his tunic strained against his muscles. There was intelligence in his eyes too; he wasn't all brawn. And Max was expected to beat him? He said ruefully, "I suppose you're Brin?"

"And you're Max Keller. I thought you'd be bigger. You won't be much trouble."

"Yes, I will. Count on it." Max looked past him to the child who sat slumped against the far wall of the stone corridor beneath a torch in a wall sconce. The whole corridor was lit with them rather than glowboxes and it looked archaic and primitive, but there was nothing primitive about the threat here. The child was probably twelve, Max thought, although he was small for his age. He sat on a bare wooden bench, his hands clasped in front of him, and he wore a plain and ragged tunic over baggy leggings, and his feet were bare except for worn sandals. When he saw them come in, his eyes rested indifferently on Max. Then they focused on Jennara and he looked mildly surprised as if a stone had bitten him. When he saw Chel behind them, he dropped his eyes quickly and hid his face in his arms, but not before Max had seen a faint flare of life in his blank eyes. He'd thought at first that the child was retarded, but he wasn't. He was aware, the indifference carefully schooled.

"I'll look forward to our contest," Brin told Max. "I know something about this ninjutsu, and while I haven't tried it, it should be interesting to match against a practitioner."

"I'm glad you think it's interesting now. I don't believe you'll still think so afterwards." Max stood as tall as he could and managed a cocky grin although it took some doing. This would be like taking on the Hulk, and Max doubted he'd enjoy it very much. But the Master had drilled into him over and over that it was his skill rather than his size that was important, and Max had to go on believing that.

"Here are the rules," Brin said with a broad predatory smile. "First, there are none in our fight."

"Fine by me," Max replied. It freed him of constraints if he didn't have to fight fair.

"Second is the boy. You, boy, stand up and look at our guests. Now."

"Won't," mumbled the boy from the cave of his folded arms.

"You will, or I'll do what I promised you earlier. But wait a minute. Chel, that's you? You're even less impressive than my opponent here. I'm disappointed. I thought there'd be something special about the Protectorate's greatest magician. Or at least," he added cruelly, "the greatest one still in residence."

"Looks are deceptive," Chel responded at once. "If you mean Maranna, I know about her already, so don't think you're going to shock me. And I know what you've done with this boy. He's Serralla's power source, isn't he? I didn't expect that even she would stoop to that, but even if I'm not what you expected, I've got enough power to tell what the boy is."

Brin blinked in momentary surprise, then he took in Jennara's uniform for the first time. "No need to wonder how you know so much when you've got a traitor helping you. And the Lady raised you, Jennara. When I've finished with pretty boy here and this third-rate mage, I'll have my pleasure with you before you die."

"You might call me a third-rate mage, but I'm a better one than you are," Chel shot at the dark man.

"You would be if you used your magic. You won't, or I'll kill this boy. Stand up, boy, and let him see your face."

The boy stood reluctantly, staring down at his sandals. Finally he heaved a defeated sigh and looked up quickly. "I'm sorry, Uncle Chel," he said in a rush. "I would've killed myself if they'd let me, but they never would."

" _Larn_!"

"Yes, wizard, it's your brother's child. My Lady has already beaten you. I know why you are here. You've come for her power source. It stands before you, a puling, sniveling weakling who couldn't stand against her. This child is Serralla's power source, as you've guessed. Come, my fine magician, kill your brother's son."

For once, Chel was completely at a loss for words. His eyes glued to the boy, he stared in horrified fascination, unable to speak or look away. Max felt for him. What a dilemma. He knew of no way the magician could hope to fight this.

He looked sideways at Jennara. " _That's_ Larn? Is he the one you thought he was?"

"No," she confessed. "I've only seen this boy once or twice. The Lady keeps him in the background. If she's made a human her power source, it's no wonder." Her disillusionment with Serralla was obviously complete. "I've never seen Maranna with this child either."

"This boy was her life price," Brin explained, gloating. "My Lady killed those magicians she felt a threat, but Maranna wanted to live so she offered this boy. He inherited her power, but was never trained in it. This way the Lady must protect him, and Maranna was permitted to live. Now she backs my Lady."

"The bitch," muttered Jennara.

The boy's eyes rested on her briefly, and she looked away uncomfortably. Max tried to smile at the boy, but it wasn't easy. The child scarcely looked at him. He was too busy feasting his eyes on his uncle as if he finally had some hope, but Max didn't see what Chel could do. A magician either had to beat an enemy or inherit his powers to gain access to the source, and Chel was no match for the Lady. He might have stolen a warded source, but how does one steal a living boy?

Brin smiled, and Max didn't like the look of it. "I'm ready," he announced, and peeled off his gloves. "You want to fight, Keller, then we fight. The boy won't run away if he knows what's good for him."

Larn shivered, and Chel went automatically to put his arms around the boy, who clutched at him and began to sob. Jennara stepped back to give the combatants room and offered Max her sword again. He grinned at her and took it.

Brin struck before Max was ready and only the training McAllister had given him enabled Max to duck away from the larger man's sword and fling up his own weapon. The blades rang together and Max felt the man's strength in the force of his blow. If it came down to brute strength, he wouldn't have a chance. But he had more options than Brin believed, and he wasn't ready to give up. Looking over at Chel, he saw that the magician had guided the boy back to the bench and set him down. Chel sat beside him but when Larn would have hugged him again, Chel said something hastily and he leaned back against the wall, maintaining a slight distance between them. Chel was going to use magic.

After that, he was too busy fighting for his life to speculate.

  


 

*****

 

  


Suddenly McAllister found Serralla looking at him again, as if she could see him as clearly as he could see her. Her lips curled in a hungry smile. *You're a fine looking man, Defender,* she praised him in a coldly caressing tone that made him feel a momentary chill of repugnance.

*I try,* he returned with a sardonic smile. *But that's not the issue and neither is your beauty. Right now we've got a world to contend for, and I'm tired of your delaying tactics. You want to stop me. You show me an image of Max--no,* he corrected holding up his hand. *Not an image. A reality. But you don't show me Max dead, so I have to assume you haven't killed him yet. You want him for something. You want to see the prophecy played out so you can defeat it. That's it, isn't it? You want to play by your own rules all through it, and feel like you've won, and that will turn people to your side. Or so you hope. You're wrong. Serralla. You can't win.*

*You saw my power source,* she reminded him, twirling a long black strand of hair around her fingertips, then tossing it aside and letting green fire dance there instead. "You know Chel. He's a weak fool. He couldn't kill a child. He hasn't the stomach for it, no matter what the stakes. But I've made it even more delicious than that, John Peter McAllister. So many names in your world. John. A strong name. I like that. Join me, John, and I will share with you. Anything you desire, short of Lorrania. Just say the word.*

*What about your power source, lady?* He grinned at her expression, but she controlled her face at once.

*You would sell your self respect and your honor for a child?* Disbelief filled her face.

*No. But I would save him and my honor together. I can do it and you know I can, or you wouldn't bother talking to me at all. A child as your power source? Who is the boy? Your son? That's risky. Children die easily here, I've learned. If anyone knows who he is and what his function is, then an enemy could kill him.*

*My true enemies will never harm the boy. Shall I tell you who he is? It doesn't matter because he's lost to the Protectorate anyway, lost forever. I own him, body and soul, and he will grow up to be mine as no man ever belonged to woman before.*

*You desire a child? You're a sick woman, Serralla.*

*Children grow, Master.* She always called him that in a note of mockery so that he would know she felt he had no mastery over her. *Besides, there is all that untapped power there, waiting for me to take it. His mother is a gifted mage, and power runs in his father's bloodline too, although less strongly there. Someday, when all Lorrania is mine, I'll deposit my power in a non-living source and develop the boy in my image. He will be my consort and my successor. Your puny court magician Chel would never touch him. He would as soon cut his wrists as harm one hair on my source's head.*

*He'd do a lot for Lorrania and the Protectorate,* McAllister told her. *And to see you crushed and removed from power. Why should he hold back if it means a whole world?*

*Because he loves his brother,* Serralla told him impatiently. *Why else did I develop this particular child as my source when any mage-born child would have done? Do you know the boy's name, John? Do you? Did you look at him and see a resemblance there to someone you know? Or, believing the boy dead, did you discount the resemblance? I'll tell you who he is, and why Chel can never triumph against me. Because the boy is his own flesh and blood, his nephew Larn. First Minister Dare's son. His wife, Maranna, is here with me and she gave me the boy when I spared her life. I won't spare it much longer--how intriguing it will be to draw the power from her own son to strike her down.* She laughed. *You don't believe me, John?*

He believed her; he couldn't help but believe her. It had to be true. What better tool could Serralla use against the Protectorate than Dare's own son, Dare whom the Protector loved like a brother, Dare, the actual brother to the court magician? She couldn't have chosen her tool better if she had tried for a century, and McAllister wondered for a moment if it were possible at all to defeat her. But it had to be possible. What was the point of the prophecy otherwise? Maybe no point, but he didn't let himself dwell on that thought, because suddenly a hand came down on his shoulder and Dare said quickly, "John?"

He discovered he could block out Serralla with no trouble at all, and, blinking, he looked up at the Minister bending over him. "What is it?" Could he tell Dare that his son still lived, knowing the boy might still die? Tell him that his beloved wife wasn't dead but that she had made it appear that she and the child were gone? Tell him Larn was safe--at least for the moment--in Crag Castle, a pawn in a deadly game, a pawn that could take the king?

"Chel contacted me," Dare explained hastily. No time for details. "The power source is a child, as you said. Chel has a plan, but he needs you to distract Serralla, to keep her from interfering with what he must do. It will be very dangerous, but he says it's the only way. I shouldn't think you could completely distract her, but--"

"Of course he can," Arran interrupted heartily. "Why else did we search two worlds for him? He'll do it because he must, and if we can, we'll boost him and give him strength. What's Chel planning?"

"He wouldn't explain it in case she picked it up."

There was really no time to demand further explanations. McAllister nodded abruptly, then he reached out to each man and gripped his shoulder. "Stay with me in case I need you," he told them. "No matter how it turns out, at least I'm glad I knew you."

Arran's smile spread across his whole face, but Dare, more restrained, only let warmth show in his eyes. McAllister discovered he treasured that. Smiling back, he nodded once, then he closed his eyes again and returned to communication with the Dark Sorceress.

*You shut me out,* she accused him, her voice filled with malice. *I shall enjoy learning how you did that. And you not a magician. What _are_ you, Defender?*

*A ninja,* he replied seriously, *and a man.* With all the energy he possessed, he gathered his strength and tried to bind it around her to hold her in place, to keep her from sensing what Chel was about to do. She felt it at once, and she struck him with image after image, all of them filled with darkness, evil and pain. He saw Max's broken body lying deep within a pit, crushed and shattered, blood staining the corner of his mouth, and knew after an agonizing instant that it was an illusion. He saw himself growing old and alone, Max gone on to newer pastures, Teri never found, fading into senility and helplessness with no one to care for him. He blinked that away and faced flames, vast mountains of fire sweeping down on Abarant like an evil curse, heard the roar of the forest fire, felt the heat, sweat starting on his body, only to come back to reality through his link with Teri's image and the strength of Dare's hand on his shoulder.

But he held Serralla in place, binding her, demanding she spend herself on these illusions to try to free herself, and each time she failed, the web tightened around her, distracting her from anything but the battle.

The images grew worse. Again she used Max against him, this time a different Max, twisted and hateful, greedy for power, joining Okasa against him, the two of them cornering him, striking him again and again. His body was battered and bleeding from many wounds while Max laughed and cursed him and called him an old fool. Okasa egged him on and led wave after wave of ninjas, bound to the old traditions, across his world, rampaging and pillaging, while Max stared down at him with pitiless eyes. McAllister rejected that illusion too, but it was hard because he had found such joy in Max, the boy who listened to him and understood and shared his values. But it was not real, just another of Serralla's tricks, and he steeled himself against the pain of it and concentrated on the web. The web must be unbroken.

Sores broke out on his body, ulcerated and suppurating, and when he lifted his hands to stare at them in disbelief, his fingertips turned black and began to crumble away before his eyes. Shuddering, he couldn't tear his eyes away, stunned because there was no pain. He had seen a leper once, in the East, where poverty and disease run rampant, and for a moment, he and the wasted man had stared at one another, McAllister young, strong and fit, and the leper with one side of his face caved in and his ear gone, his fingers just like McAllister's looked now. The horror had lingered with him for years, sometimes surprising him with a nightmare, and now he wondered if Serralla had limited access to his subconscious mind or whether her images only triggered horrors buried deep within, such as the possibility of Max's defection. But trying to find a rationale for the images proved this one false too and he flexed his hands, relieved to find them whole and unblemished. This time, he could sense both Dare and Arran close to him, giving him what strength they could, as if they could provide him with a living power source such as Serralla had.

The web. He had to hold the web no matter what else happened, even though he suddenly couldn't think, his thoughts chasing each other around like marbles in a pinball game. She was fighting him with everything she had, and only his alienness and his _chi_ gave him the power to resist. *Stop it, Serralla,* he sent to her. *You're wasting your time and mine. I have you prisoner now.*

*Not for long, Master,* she spat at him. *Not for long.* And she threw yet another image at him, this one the worst yet. He saw himself, maddened by rage and lust, striking out against his enemy, who wore Serralla's face, flinging her to the ground, battering her head against the floor until she lay unable to struggle. He felt the lust course through his body as she fed him more of the illusion, and he tore her clothes away and satisfied his need upon her helpless body. While he knew it wasn't real, he could feel it as if it were, and to shut her out now would weaken the web, so he resisted it, knowing deep within his mind that he would never abuse his enemy this way.

But Serralla was not yet finished with him. The body beneath him stirred and looked at him, and Serralla's features melted away to be replaced by other familiar features, a dark haired, dark eyed girl, who stared at him in disgust and horror, and cried, "Why, Father? Why?" The dying woman beneath him became his own daughter, and it was all he could do to keep from recoiling and destroying the web as he pulled back from this ghastly image.

*Did you enjoy her?* Serralla crooned in his ear. *She was young and beautiful. And you destroyed her. You destroyed her and you enjoyed it. Yes, John, you enjoyed it. Your own daughter. How are you better than me if such things can be?*

*I deny the reality of your illusion,* McAllister insisted, feeling it fade, although the horror of it lingered, cold and bitter, in his heart. He knew that tears were leaking from beneath his closed eyelids, and he ignored them. It wasn't real. Nothing was real, nothing but the web that he wove about the sorceress, binding her in place, keeping her focused on him and him alone. He knew she fought it. She tried to sneak away with each illusion, each moment of pain she caused him, but she could not sever the web. How much longer could he hold against her? Forever? No one could hold it forever. How long had it been? It felt like days, but it might have been no more than minutes.

*Maybe your daughter wasn't enough,* Serralla suggested slyly. *Maybe your interest is in another direction.* The body was back, struggling weakly beneath him. This time it wore Max's face, twisted with hate and fear and disgust. "Let me go," Max's image screamed at him. "I hate you. Let me go." But it wasn't Max any more than it had been Teri, and he denied that illusion too.

After that, the illusions all held pain, but they held contempt too, creating situations designed to make him weak and helpless, using people, always hurting innocent people in his quest for perfection, perfection at the expense of everyone else. *It's true,* she said. *I feel it in you, John. You need to believe that you alone are right, that Okasa betrayed an ideal rather than you personally. You had to prove him mean-spirited and desirous of power so that the fact he had turned away from you wouldn't hurt so much. It's true, isn't it? You trained Max selfishly so that he would conform to your noble ideals, so that he would never betray you because you are perfect, the Great Ninja God McAllister, who alone of all the ninja knows what is right and what is wrong. No wonder they sent for you to fight me. Only someone with so big an ego could hope to stand against me this long. But I know now that you never turned from the darkness. The dark lives in you, John McAllister. To prove you were right, you walked away from the ninja; to prove you were right, you trained Max. To justify your ego. That's it, isn't it? _Isn't it_?*

*No.* McAllister knew she was building this image so successfully because there was some element of truth to it, but not in the way she insisted. He did believe he was right, and so he had turned from the goals shared by Okasa and the others. But not to do so would have been wrong. It wasn't to justify his ego, not then. It was because he couldn't in good conscience condone their actions. If she had been right, he would have killed Okasa and his disciples whenever the opportunity presented itself, justifying himself for their deaths because it showed that his path was the correct one. But because he believed he was right, he would _not_ kill. Because he believed in what he did, he had tried to show Max the right of it. Part of that was to train someone as a ninja who would not believe in the old ways, but it was to atone for his failure with Okasa and the others, not to satisfy his ego. The rest of it was because he saw in Max something of himself as a young man and wanted to help Max find a direction in his life, and, later, because he had come to love Max like a son. Serralla was wrong this time, and he knew it.

So he finally grasped the initiative and began to take her to task for her misuse of magic, for her colossal ego which she felt set her above the laws that had guided Lorrania for centuries. He reproached her for her abuse of the boy Larn, who had been so afraid of what her power would do to him and his world that he had offered to take his life to stop her. A twelve year old boy should not be faced with such decisions. It must have amused her to keep him as good and pure as he seemed to be, instead of corrupting him into her willing slave. It wasn't as if she loved him either, as a woman might love a child who had come into her care. No, she had schemed and used him and even, in a sick, perverted way, desired him, knowing that as he grew up, she could turn him evil, make him depraved with her dark plans. He despised what she had done to poor Larn, letting him know that his own mother had valued him so little that she had bargained him away to save her own life. At least she had not touched the inner spark that kept Larn going.

*Why not?* he demanded, curious now, feeling the firmness of the web about her, seeing its intricate design holding her trapped, the various strands glittering in the light of her green fire, pale now, and shining all over with a deep rich golden glow. He wondered where it came from, and a whisper of an answer came into his mind from somewhere--Arran or Dare maybe?-- _It's your own aura, Master_. Interesting.

*Why not?* he asked her again. *Why did you leave Larn untouched? Why did you order him protected at all times--because power works best when it's pure and unsullied? Because, deep inside of you, there's still something good?*

*Don't be a fool,* she snarled at him, her eyes snapping green to match her power-light. *I kept him that way because it amused me. It amused me to see that simple fool following me about at my orders, obeying my every whim, knowing that someday he would be mine to mold and twist into my own image. It amused me, John, just as it amused me to create images in your mind and cause you pain. I felt your pain and I liked it. It gave me power, and power is everything.*

*I don't think so,* he replied, his confidence building now. *I don't think it's everything. I think it's a substitute for something you wanted once, something you never got. I think it's a substitute for love.*

*You're wrong,* she shrieked at him. *You're a fool and you're wrong.*

Bound together like this, there was a truth beyond illusion, and she could not conceal it from him completely. *Yes,* he said, his voice going gentle suddenly. *A substitute for love, Serralla. Life betrayed you, and you fought back in the only way you knew how. There's a little greed in all of us--it's one of the things that makes us human. You were hurt and alone and you took that as a substitute, a replacement for what you lost or never had. Shall I fill that void, Serralla? Shall I love you?*

She twisted her lip then threw him a suggestive leer. *You desire me? You enjoyed the illusion, didn't you, taking me by force? Taking the others? I'm very skilled, and I could please you, John. But it wouldn't be love and you know it. It's simple gratification. Yes, I could give you that. And then I would triumph, wouldn't I? Don't be a fool. You disappoint me.*

*You misunderstand me, and I think you're doing it deliberately. I'm not speaking of rape or lust or any form of physical possession, Serralla. I'm talking of love. The kind the boy is capable of giving, although not to you. Shall I tell you why you really kept him around, kept him pure, protected him? Because you want someone that innocent to be able to love you freely. But you've gone too far, Serralla, and you frightened him. A kind word might have been enough to win him, but you never gave him that, did you? You were afraid to take the risk. If you gave him kindness and he still despised you, it would be worse than ever. You wanted him to love you and hoped that someone so unsullied could do it simply because he was everything that you were not. You hoped his purity would conquer your evil and your isolation and your greed, and remind you that you have a heart. It didn't work, Serralla, because love needs more than that.*

*This is funny, John. A good jest. What does love need? I can hardly wait to hear your answer. I haven't had a good laugh in months.*

*There are a lot of different answers, Serralla. But the one most appropriate now is simple. Love needs understanding.*

*Nonsense,* she scoffed. *I understand a great many people. I understand Maranna's power-lust. I understand Brin's cold superiority in battle. I understand your ego, even though you deny it. I don't love any of you.*

*No. But you love the boy.*

*I love no one.*

*Not even yourself, Serralla? Or do you hate yourself most of all?*

She threw a few pain-images at him in an attempt to stall for time, and he resisted them, concentrating on the web and on Teri because she might believe his guard had been lowered and attack. Then he pressed on, ignoring the images this time because they had begun to lose their power to deceive him. *I understand you, Serralla, and I see much to admire,* he went on in a calm, strong voice, full of gentleness. *I admire your courage, your refusal to be weak for other people, your determination, your skill. I don't like what you've done with all of that, but underneath it all is a woman with the same needs as any other being, and I love that woman.*

*No! I will not let you love me. I hate you and I will always hate you. I hate everyone, fools all. Stupid, weak, worthless people, people who give in to me, who don't have the courage to stand up to me.*

*Larn stands up to you, and so do I.*

* _Nooo_!*

*You love that boy. I know you must protect him because he's the source of your power, but you would have protected him anyway, wouldn't you? You let the people around you believe him unimportant to protect him. You fear if they knew you cared for him they would use him to get to you. It's not because he's your source, because that part of him must be protected. It's because he's Larn. He's too young to understand, Serralla, too young and frightened to see you as I do, and so he hates you. But that could change. Free him, Serralla. Let him go. It's not too much to ask. Make yourself another power source if you must and go on fighting, but let Larn go. He's become your child, the child you never could bear because to have a child would make you vulnerable. Give up your plans to mold him into your image. Free him, and maybe one day he'll understand.*

He thought that for a moment she weakened. Maybe it was true, maybe she really did have a kernel of love for the child in her heart. For a moment she stepped back a little and thought of Larn, and for once there was no lust for power ruling her, no drive for vengeance. For a moment she was simply Serralla and he was simply Larn.

And that was enough.

Suddenly she shrieked as if she had been stabbed to the heart, and she began to curse and revile him, and to struggle against the web. But the time was past.

*It's too late, Serralla.* His voice was gentle, and he didn't attempt to conceal the love he had let himself feel for the human woman buried deep within the Empress of the West. *It's over, and we've won.* He took the strands of the web and cradled her in them as if she were a wounded child. She collapsed against the web, sobbing.

*I hate you. You've destroyed everything.*

*No, Serralla,* he told her softly. *I've given you a new beginning.*

  


 

*****

 

  


Max struggled against the larger Brin, and Chel couldn't help shuddering as he watched the fight. He knew what he must do, had known since he sent the message to his brother, demanding that Serralla be bound away from this fight. All it would take was one moment when her guard dropped, and then, if he was lucky and the boy had the wits to cooperate, he knew just what to do. In a way, it might even be easier than finding some remote, guarded item in the vast depths of Crag Castle. At least his target was before him, and if he couldn't destroy Dare's child, he could find a way to free him from Serralla. The boy's mind was clear even now. She had never warped him, and behind the vast grief and fear that flickered in Larn's eyes, so like Dare's, there was a faint ghost of the bright and loving child who had dogged his steps when he had been small.

Larn was free of Serralla except for the binding that made him her power source. Chel had come to Crag Castle for one purpose only, to destroy Serralla's power source, but now he couldn't do that, although he might be able to break her hold on it. He knew how power sources were bound to magicians; it was something like warding, but not quite the same, and he had studied it before coming. The thought of stealing Serralla's power source had never occurred to him, although it was possible, possible with precisely the right circumstances. If he could put his own wards around himself and Larn, he could keep her out while he channeled the stored power away. His wards would hold against Serralla for the time needed to complete the task. Once the stored power was gone, Chel could help the boy erect a barrier to keep Serralla out. If she died this night, then the barrier would be even more important, and Chel wasn't one for half measures. Having functioned as a power source, the boy might need the protection for a while just to get by. He had some power of his own after all, Chel remembered, having once expected to share with Maranna the boy's training.

But in order to ward the dark Lady's power source, Chel would need her distracted, bound away from him to prevent her interference. The only one who could do that was the Master, and Chel knew he couldn't reach him over such a distance, especially when he was already in contact with Serralla. Chel needed to contact Dare--and he would have to be very careful. He couldn't wait to tell his brother the news that Larn was alive, even if that news had to be tempered with the knowledge of Maranna's betrayal. But he couldn't tell him yet because there was no guarantee that any of them would survive. It would be cruel to offer his brother hope and then dash it away again.

Chel heaved a vast sigh, aware of the boy beside him watching him avidly, and he spared him a smile. "I have to work some magic now, Larn," he said. "I'll do everything I can for you, I promise, but it'll be dangerous."

"I don't mind," Larn replied. "It's better than what I have now."

It took Chel a moment to realize that Larn was absolving him in the event that the attempt should fail, and he quivered with horror at the thought of losing the child who had survived so much already. For the first time in his life Chel wished for Serralla's power for himself. He hadn't wanted it for his own sake, but now he wanted it for Larn. This would be hard enough on Dare as it was. He'd been blind to Maranna's faults, and he would wish to deny what had happened. But if Chel could rescue something from the mess, if he could take Larn back with him and return him to his brother, then maybe Dare could find strength for the boy.

Chel stiffened his shoulders and sent a hasty message to his brother.

As always, Dare was responsive. It took moments for Chel to explain his needs and to tell Dare that Serralla's power source was a living child, that McAllister needed to distract her completely to give him room to operate. Dare had questions but he held them back, promising to relay the message. Chel broke the connection instantly. He didn't want Serralla to pick up any of it.

He relaxed into the mode that would allow him to draw his own power easiest, still holding away from Larn. Letting himself drift a little, he stretched out with a corner of his mind to see if he could find the link that had been forged between McAllister and the Dark Lady. There it was, glowing before his eyes. He went into the state of consciousness that allowed him to watch Max's fight, ready to intervene if necessary, but which showed him all things magical around him; auras and power lines and wards. Serralla's aura was green; he knew that much already from her wards and the aura surrounding Larn. The Master's was golden, warm and rich, and it made Serralla's look pale and faded by comparison.

After that, the encounter became very surreal to Chel. He could see two battles at the same time, one physical between Max and Brin, and one magical in a sense, even though the Master's power wasn't magic as Chel knew it. He could see Max feint to one side as Brin lunged with a blow that should have flattened Max only to see the young man slide effortlessly under Brin's guard, catch his foot and upset him neatly onto his back.

But Brin was too good to be so handily thrown without retaliation, and he lunged at Max before he was even on his feet again, knocking the younger man flying. Max hit the wall hard, and when he straightened and circled to face Brin again, Chel saw that he slightly favored his arm. When Brin tried to take advantage of it, Max responded with a blow that sent the bigger man reeling, then dove for his sword again, just in time to parry Brin's thrust.

Brin was trained in fencing, Lorranian-style, and Max had only been doing sword work for a couple of years, but he had been well trained in his different style. He could spin around and block Brin from behind without even seeming to see where Brin would strike next, and he could jump high enough to appear to fly over Brin's lunges. If Brin had witnessed this kind of fighting before, he had evidently not considered it much of a threat, and the sight of Max, who was smaller and more slightly built than he was, must have given him a case of overconfidence. Brin was used to winning. He certainly wasn't accustomed to losing to someone like Max.

Max responded fast and furious to each of Brin's thrusts and strokes, and at first it seemed like he was fighting a purely defensive battle, but suddenly Chel realized that Max had more control of the situation than he had thought. For the most part, it was Max who maneuvered them into positions that gave him an edge, and Chel could see that Brin was gradually realizing it, too. Suddenly Max got an opening, and his sword sliced forward cleanly, striking Brin in the upper left arm. The man faltered only an instant and then resumed the fight, but the wound began to bleed, and it would eventually weaken him. If Max could hold out long enough, he just might win this battle.

But Brin had said there were no rules, and suddenly he swept out his injured arm and grabbed Jennara around the neck, pulling her in front of him to block Max. "All right, outworlder. Suppose you drop your sword. If you don't, I'll have to hurt her just a little."

"Don't listen to him, Max," Jennara cried, and Chel looked at her in surprise, for she sounded frightened and demoralized, and one thing Chel had learned about Jennara so far was that the young Erly warrior was no coward.

Max froze for a moment, then he caught Jennara's eye. "I'm sorry," he said seriously. "But I can't stop. You understand, don't you?"

"Do what you must," she replied in a small voice. Chel couldn't see her face, but he could see the set of her shoulders, and he knew that although she looked frightened and defeated, she was braced for action. Chel shifted his eyes back to Max. Max knew. Those two understood each other very well.

Time hung suspended for a moment, and Chel went on passing blue fire back and forth between his hands, the warding ritual trembling on the tip of his tongue. McAllister's golden web grew stronger by the minute, and very soon it would be time to strike. It was almost like a ward itself, Chel realized, as he spun a pattern with his fingertips to encircle the boy. "Commence," he muttered.

" _Now_!" Jennara shrieked as she went limp in Brin's grip. Max lunged forward as the girl dropped to her knees before the warrior and drove his sword deep into Brin's side. The larger man roared with pain and anger and made one final cast with his sword, glancing off Jennara's leather armor without doing more than scoring it, and swinging toward Max's face. He countered it, and metal rang out as his hand closed over the blade.

Chel shuddered even as he whispered, "Continue," but Max had strapped a metal claw to his hand and he was using it to repel the sword.

If he'd had time to don two of them, he would have escaped injury entirely, but he hadn't finished the second one, and his grip wasn't as good as it should be. The blade glanced off the metal claw and sliced down his arm in one final smooth stroke before the hand holding the sword lost its grip and it slid free to ring on the stone of the passage. Max cried out once, a sharp wincing sound, and began to pull off the claw. Jennara struggled free of Brin's sagging body and regained her feet, crouching like a fighting bruinate about to strike, her knife poised in her hand, but she held back because it was Max's kill, and she wouldn't interfere unless he so instructed her.

At that moment, Chel felt Serralla's touch depart completely, bound and secured within the web, controlled by the Master's strategy, and before Max could move, before Brin could finally collapse, Chel spread his hands wide. "Complete," he intoned, and the blue fire bathed Larn, showing the elation in his face as he realized what Chel had done. The fire faded away and became invisible as the wards were set. Almost immediately, Chel could feel Serralla again, but it was too late; Larn was cut off from her, and she could not reach him to draw more power.

Relieved for the boy, Chel was astounded to find a moment of unexpected sympathy for Serralla surge through him. A magician himself, Chel could imagine what it would mean to be separated from his power source, and while he didn't really understand what the Master had done to Serralla to distract her, Chel had the impression that the boy mattered to her even if she had never admitted it, not even to herself. Never more could she use this boy, not unless she broke Chel's wards, and she couldn't do it without her power source to draw upon, assuming she could have done it at all.

Max stood weaving a little, clutching at his arm, and Chel could see blood oozing between his fingers. Nasty. But Brin was still conscious, and he lifted his head as he dropped to his knees and looked at Max in astonishment. "You've killed me," he choked out, and there was respect in his eyes. "Everything I did, you countered it. Everything."

Then he lunged at Max with a knife, but Max jumped aside easily, unalarmed, for he must have seen the impulse in Brin's eyes or in the tensing of his muscles. "Everything you can do, I'll counter," Max agreed. "Do you yield?"

"No!" cried Jennara sharply, waving her knife at Brin. "Don't trust him, Max. He said there were no rules in this fight."

"A dead man can't break rules." Max stood back a little and looked down at Brin, his mouth curling slightly as if he wanted to be sick. As competent a fighter as Max was, he was unaccustomed to fights to the death, and Chel, who hated the thought of causing anyone so much as a scratch, could understand how he felt. But, like Chel, Max must have known he had no alternative, and he stiffened himself against what was coming.

Brin slid over sideways and lay still. For a moment, his eyes caught and held Max's, and the young ninja met them steadily, although he looked definitely unhappy. Then Brin's eyes blurred and went blank, and his breath slid out of him in a long, rattling sigh. After that, he didn't move again, not even to breathe.

Jennara pounded Max enthusiastically on the back. "Well done," she cried. "A beautiful fight. I wish you could teach me how to do it. You always knew where he was even when your back was turned. How do you _do_ that?"

"I'll tell you later," Max responded, bending to pick up the sword. He made a wry face at the sight of the blood on it, then dug into his pocket for a rag to wipe it clean.

"I'll clean your sword for you, Max," Jennara exclaimed. "Leave it. It's my place to do it. How's your arm? Is it bad?"

"It's only a scratch." Chel wondered if he would have claimed that no matter how bad it was in order to save face in front of Jennara, who had to be more bloodthirsty than any girl he'd known back in his tamer world, or whether it was really true, but before he could investigate, Larn rose and went over to Max. "Show me," he instructed.

"Huh?" Max glanced at him. Larn was a lot smaller than Max, but he was standing as tall as he could now, and Max faced him cautiously before casting a questioning glance at Chel.

"He's warded," Chel explained. "Go ahead, Max. We can't get out of here until we do something about that arm."

So Max pulled off his tunic and opened his shirt, sliding it free of the injury. Larn looked at the wound then turned to Chel. "He's right, Uncle Chel. It's only a scratch. Let me."

Chel grimaced at the sight of the wound, long and messy although probably not serious. He'd never learned to like the sight of blood. Then he turned to the boy. "If you know what to do, go ahead. The wards won't stop you. Do you know how to care for injuries?"

"I know." The studied indifference was gone from Larn's face and for the first time since they had found him, he looked free. Now, he leaned closer, studying Max's arm, and suddenly he stretched out his hand and traced a finger down the length of the wound. Max flinched as if he'd brushed against a hot coal, then his face smoothed out.

Chel sucked in breath, his eyes widening in disbelief. "Power!"

Behind the boy's finger, the flesh joined together again and smoothed out. When Larn lifted his hand, all that was left was a faint red line to mark the path of Brin's sword.

Seeing Chel's frozen face and Jennara's wide-eyed disbelief, Max tipped his chin forward and peered down at his arm. "Holy shit," he burst out. "How'd you do that, kid?"

"I just put it back the way it was," Larn replied. "The lady won't let me do any _real_ magic, but I found out I can mend things--and people. If I know how something's supposed to be, I can make it that way again. It isn't perfect; it leaves a scar on a person. But it works."

"He's a _healer_!" Jennara exploded. "By the power, Chel, there hasn't been a real healer in generations. And he learned it here, with _her_."

"Not with her," Larn insisted. "She doesn't know. None of them know. Not even my mother. It's a secret."

"Somebody's gotta know, if you've done this before," Max objected, bending his arm and flexing the muscles to test the healing. "You've healed people before this, haven't you, kid?"

"Only a few," Larn explained. "And they were scared to tell anybody. _She_ controls all the magic here. If she knew they'd gone to someone else, she might've punished them. She _likes_ to punish people. So everybody kept quiet. And I healed animals. I had a rabbit once, and it had a broken leg. I used the other one to see how it was supposed to be and fixed it, and I hid it in my room. But _she_ found out, and we had it for dinner." He added in a small voice, "I know I'm not supposed to hate her, Uncle Chel, because she says it feeds her power, but I don't _like_ her very much." Then, when Chel struggled unsuccessfully to hide a smile, Larn grasped his arm and shook it a little. "Can we go to my father now?"

"Soon, Larn. First we have to drain her power off you and block her from ever coming back. I can ward you until then, but even though she can't get through to you, she knows where you are. She might try to stop us, until we get her blocked. Max, you and Jennara can stand guard. Hide Brin's body and don't let anybody interfere with us. I'll ward the corridor, but I can't put as much into it as I did with Larn or I'll drain myself too much to help him."

"Can't I just _give_ you the power she had in me?" Larn suggested. "I know you can't take it since you haven't beaten her and she's still alive, but maybe I could give it to you."

"Can he do that?" Max asked, taking back the cleaned sword from Jennara while she wiped Brin's weapon.

"I don't know. There's never been a human power source before, at least not that we know of. No power source before ever had free will. Try, Larn. It just might get us out of here alive."

"If she knows where we are right now, what's stopping her?" Jennara asked.

"The Master's got her busy," Max replied.

"No," Chel realized suddenly, sensing something new in the air. "He did. He kept her occupied until I could ward Larn. But something new is happening now. It's something nasty." He shuddered. "Come, Larn. We must be quick. Give me your hand."

The boy obeyed unquestioningly, and Chel felt a sudden spasm of power from him that was more than wards and Serralla's stored power. Larn had magical potential himself although he had developed none of it except the healing gift. This would be very interesting. With luck, Larn could help him.

"I'm going to take some of your power," Chel explained. "When Serralla did it, how did you give it to her?"

"Give it? She _took_ it, Uncle Chel. I didn't have much say about it, not ever. But if I tried to hold back, she could make it hurt, so I learned to get rid of it fast. Like this." His face screwed up in concentration, and Chel felt the power come flooding out of him in a surge as mighty as the tide of the Western Sea. Quickly he opened to receive it and channel it to his own source, stunned at the boy's control. He could bet Serralla hadn't taught him any of this; he'd figured it out for himself. She must have guessed his strength, but she would be egotistical enough to believe that it was her own strength drawing stored power from the boy. A magician as powerful as the Lady sometimes made mistakes because she underestimated everyone else.

Catching himself, Chel regulated the power flow and slowed it. "Easy, Larn," he soothed. "You're doing fine. No, no more now. Keep the rest. You're a good magician, did you know that? I'll have to give you training once we get home. We can use a healer like you." He terminated the flow, and Larn accepted his direction contentedly. "Now comes the hard part."

"I thought the hard part was Brin," Max muttered to Jennara under his breath, and Larn smothered a giggle at the tone of his voice.

"No, Max. That was important, but making sure the Lady can't take Larn back is harder. I can't understand why she hasn't sent troops down to take us--well, yes I can. Something's going on. I don't know what it is, but I bet the Master does. Can you sense him, Max?"

Max concentrated hard, his brow furrowing with the effort, then he shook his head. "No. I can tell he's alive and safe, and I think he's dead tired, but I don't think he's really _here_ now, if you know what I mean. He's not in touch with her any more."

"The worst of that is over. He's got to be very strong to have held her long enough for me to make sure Larn was safe. But we can't leave him open to her. Warded like he is, I'm the only one who can touch him--he can reach out if he feels the need, like when he healed you, but he can't leave the wards, and he can't eat or drink while he's shielded like that. So I've got to make sure she can't get through to him. It's going to take every bit of energy I've got. You might have to carry me home on your back, Max."

"If that's what it takes, I'm your man."

"We'll all help," Jennara promised. "Come on, Max, we've got to stand guard."

Chel closed his eyes again and took both of Larn's hands. *I know you're not trained,* he said sub-vocally to his nephew, *but you've got the potential. You just do like I say and we'll manage it together. Right?*

*Right.* Larn's attempt to communicate without words was a little shaky, but Chel could 'hear' him clearly enough. *Good. Now you're warded, and she can't touch you, so don't be afraid of her. She can't hurt you now, and when we're through, she'll never be able to hurt you again. I promise you that.*

*I believe you, Uncle Chel. But--will it hurt _you_?*

*No, only make me tired. Now look at me. I'm going to do a little exploring. It won't hurt, but it might feel funny.*

Larn nodded obediently, then his eyes widened as he realized he was now seeing his uncle on two levels, here in the flesh, and in image too. Chel's aura was blue, and he had expected Larn's to be blue too, but instead it was yellow, almost gold, nearly the same color as McAllister's, and it shone through everything that Serralla had tried to do to the child. It was almost as strong as wards, and very like the web McAllister had designed to use against Serralla. Chel wondered fleetingly if Maranna had blood ties in McAllister's world. That could explain a lot, although magic was not the norm there.

On the second level, Chel could see more than auras, although this was something he was not really gifted at. He knew the techniques, but he had never really perfected them the way he had warding. He could see thin tendrils of green light dancing outside the wards as Serralla hunted for a weakness in his defenses. Warding was the only way he could shut Serralla out, but he was surprised to find how weak her probes were as if she were doing it with only a fraction of her concentration. Any really gifted magician will keep his power at a high level so that blockage of his source can be thwarted if necessary. She was not powerless yet simply because he had placed Larn beyond her reach.

But her probes showed him what he needed to see, the pathway she had created into the boy's aura. Once he could trace that to its source within the child, he could follow it out again and block it as he went. If he sealed it off too deep inside Larn, he could damage the boy both magically and physically. But if he did it at the right place, Serralla could never get back in, no matter how hard she tried. Without Larn's physical presence, she couldn't create a new pathway to her power.

So he probed carefully, following the path the tendrils aimed at. *Help me a little, Larn,* he urged. *Show me the way. I won't hurt you. You know that.*

*I know. _This_ way, Uncle Chel.* The boy stretched out with his raw, untrained gifts and suddenly Chel could see the pathway, a golden gleam of light that burrowed into the boy's skull, deep within his brain. Chel shivered a little--he didn't like this kind of magic--but he had to do it, and he concentrated the blue fire of his essence and followed the golden route to the source.

It drained him even more than he had believed possible. This was very delicate work because even magic could damage living tissue if it was misdirected. Larn knew the way, but Chel had to follow his path exactly, unable to deviate by even a millimeter. It required every bit of his concentration. He wouldn't have noticed if Max and Jennara had been fighting a pitched battle right next to him.

There. It was the center, the heart of Larn's power. It was firm and solid and glowing, and it proved that power in itself was neutral, as any magician had always claimed, because the remainder of Serralla's power had nothing evil about it. Chel left it for the boy because Larn would need strength for the journey back to Abarant, and he would need to be alert for attempts to break past his guard. Chel could block her route to power, but he could not block the fact that Serralla and Larn had known each other for six years, half the boy's life. Although they had not loved each other, there was a kind of bond between them and she might try to plead with him, to cajole him into allowing her admittance again. Chel thought Larn was too smart for that, but it might take power to resist her, and he couldn't strip the boy to feed himself.

Turning his back on that glorious glowing power, he began to retrace his route, drawing a barrier behind him, deepening and strengthening it as if he were warding it. He discovered that in his inexperienced way, Larn was trying to help him. He felt the yellow glow pursuing him out, reinforcing each bit of barricade as he formed it.

Finally he was out again, and he and Larn worked together to build a final block, one that no living magician could hope to pass and survive. Larn could let someone in, but no one could come without his permission. He was safe. He was finally free of Serralla.

With his last bit of energy, Chel made the sign to drop the wards. "Cease," he muttered aloud, and then he felt the darkness of exhaustion claim him, even as blue fire fell away from Larn and released him into the care of Max and Jennara.

  


 

*****

 

  


John Peter McAllister was exhausted. He didn't know how long he had contended with Serralla, but when he dropped from the link enough to become aware of his surroundings, he found a concerned Dare hovering over him and a slightly more relaxed Arran offering him a flask of grenberry juice. "Is it done, Master?" Arran demanded urgently.

"Done?" McAllister frowned. "I don't know. Chel's got the power source, though, and Serralla can't get to the boy now. I think I'll have to contact her again, though. I feel that something else is about to happen."

"What else?" demanded Dare. "You've done what we brought you here for. What else can you do?"

"Still the skeptic, Dare?" McAllister asked him fondly. "For one thing, Serralla still holds power and for another, there's her army to deal with. I think once her power fails, the various troops will suddenly discover they aren't really a united army, and they'll break down into their component parts, but that isn't what I mean. Just before the contact was severed, I sensed a new presence, a different player in the game. I've got to go back in."

Arran's face held curiosity, but Dare shook his head. "You're exhausted now. What more can you do?"

"I have to try. It's important." He stretched out a hand to each of them. "I think I'll need you to boost me this time."

Both responded promptly, and, linked with them, feeling their strength as well as what was left of his own, McAllister closed his eyes and stretched out for the green fire that was Serralla.

If she knew he was there, she didn't acknowledge it. She was standing in her chamber, back straight and head held high, and even though he could sense her sudden fear, it was evident in neither her posture nor her face. She confronted another woman, shorter and fair haired with a hard face and crafty eyes. Without her power source, Serralla had only her reserves and her skill to draw upon, and it was evident to the Master that this new player was also a gifted magician, nearly as powerful as the Lady herself. Her aura was orange, and it was glowing brightly. A smile lifted one corner of her mouth.

"So, Lady," she accused, "you have lost my son, and your power as well. What a pity."

"Don't play the hypocrite with me, Maranna," the lady spat back. "The only pity is that I let you live when you bargained for your life. I should have slain you as I did the other magicians who opposed me. I know you've worked behind my back more than once these past six years."

"You only spared me because you wanted Larn," Maranna replied. So this was Dare's wife. McAllister winced, knowing how Dare would react to all this. At least Larn was safe, but how would Dare take the knowledge that his beloved wife had deliberately betrayed him and her country, and had bartered her own son to save her life? If they could save the child, it would help, but maybe not enough.

"Yes, for the boy's sake," Serralla replied. "A child with more potential than you'll ever have, and we both know it."

"You wanted him even then. A six year old child!" Maranna sneered. "I've come to kill you, Serralla. You can't resist me now, and I will take power from you. I am far more able than you to maintain power. My source is inviolate, and I won't waste any more time on you. I'll take back my son and train him far better than you could have done. I never meant you to keep him, and the only reason I've waited this long is because you haven't hurt him, and because I needed time to prepare. The time is now, Serralla, and you are dead."

"Your power source is an ornamental dagger that you conceal behind a secret panel in your chamber," said Serralla calmly. "I am powerful enough to tamper with it. Yes, you are a powerful mage, Maranna. You may use your power against everyone--except for me. I've set a block around your source. What you hold within you now is all you can use against me."

Maranna's eyes flickered dismay for one unguarded moment, then she lashed out with orange fire at Serralla. The lady responded, green fire clashing with orange. The room trembled around them as they struggled against each other. Maranna was powerful, indeed, realized McAllister. If both women held their power sources, the lady would win but with difficulty. Now, he didn't know which of them had the greater reserves.

He could feel Dare and Arran asking him questions, but he ignored them. He would need to sit down with Dare after this was over and tell him what he had learned about Maranna, but he couldn't do that until he knew how this battle would end. If Serralla lost, there would be repercussions throughout Lorrania.

At first, it didn't seem possible that Serralla could lose.

The Master couldn't see the illusions that the two women flung at each other, but he could tell when one of them hit its mark, like the time that Maranna suddenly shrieked with rage and threw herself at her rival only to catch herself before they actually touched. Another time, Serralla's face went dead white with fury, and power boiled up out of her, almost overwhelming the Protectorate magician.

They raged on and on, and finally McAllister saw that both of them were weakening, and as he realized it, so did they. A titanic struggle followed in which each tried to call upon the power that was blocked from them and failed. Then they went at each other again. Maranna struggled harder than she had so far because she knew that if she bested Serralla, she would have her stored power available again. Even though she was not quite Serralla's equal, she could afford to drain herself completely in this fight and Serralla couldn't.

Both of them lashed out again with killing strength, and this time, their protective shields were unequal to the task. McAllister saw what was happening and began to disengage himself quickly, knowing if he left it too late, he might be killed with them, but he saw the killing blows strike, and both women began to fall.

Serralla knew she was dying, and in that moment, confident that she had taken her enemy with her, she became aware of the Master again. For a moment, hate flared through her, then it melted away as her life force ebbed, and she gathered her last strength from somewhere deep within. *Go free, Master,* she said, and this time there was no mockery in her voice at the title. *You have won. I see now what you meant before. I can find it in me, these last moments, to love, too. Pull out now while I can still protect you. Wait until I die, and she might take you with her as she goes. Good-bye, my friend.*

As the darkness swooped down on both women, McAllister found himself cast from the binding, and he reeled back in his chair, drained almost to death himself, and everything went dark.

He didn't know how long he was unconscious. Fatigue lay heavily upon him when he opened his eyes, and he could barely move. He wanted to sleep the clock around, but he couldn't do that yet. Looking up at Dare's white face and Arran's horrified eyes, he began to gather strength again, and finally he was able to sit up, leaning back in the chair, while both men fussed over him. Arran brought him ale and made him drink it and for once he accepted it, feeling the warmth of the liquor burning through his body and reviving him a little. Dare fetched food, and the two men insisted he eat before they would let him say a word, even though Arran was ready to burst from curiosity.

Finally he found the strength to speak, but his words came sparingly as if he had to hoard them the way he did his strength. "Serralla's dead," he said.

They exclaimed over that, Arran pelting him with questions until the Master finally shook his head. "It wasn't me. Another magician killed her, just as she killed the other magician. Neither of them could reach their power sources, so they went to the death." He smiled faintly then. "Poor Serralla. At the end, she was healed."

"Healed?" echoed Arran in confusion. "I thought you said she was dead."

"Peace, youngster," Dare told the Prince. "I know what you mean, John. She renounced her dark ways?"

"Not exactly," McAllister replied. "But at the end, she learned how to love."

"She forced you from the link," Dare realized. "Otherwise, you could have been pulled into death with them. It was close, John. We almost lost you."

He looked concerned, and Arran's face was still white. McAllister smiled to reassure them. "I know it was close," he told them. "I'm sorry. At least it's over now. But--" He looked at Dare suddenly, knowing that the news would have probably come better from Raban, but Raban was still away and wouldn't be back for at least a day. That left him, because Arran was too young and inexperienced to handle it. "Dare," he said solemnly, "I have some news for you."

"News for _me?_ " The Minister stared at him in sudden alarm. "Not Raban--" Then, realizing that there was little chance McAllister would know of any danger to the Protector, he continued. "Chel? My brother?"

"No. Chel's safe, to the best of my knowledge. But I think you should know--" He glanced over at Arran standing there, curiosity written all across his face. "This should be private, Prince."

"Private?" Arran echoed, then he nodded. McAllister didn't know if he had somehow guessed or if he had simply come close enough to Dare to do what he thought best for the man. "All right. I'll see if there's any other news," he offered and departed.

"Now what is this?" Dare demanded. "I sensed Chel was holding something back, but there wasn't time. What is it? Tell me quickly."

"It's good news and bad," McAllister said. "The good news is that your son lives."

"That's impossible." Dare went rigid and backed away from McAllister. "I see it now," he growled. "She corrupted you after all. We haven't won. She's twisted you, making you tell her foul lies."

"No, Dare." McAllister looked at him sadly. "Neither your wife nor your son died six years ago. It was two other bodies with a glamour over them to make people believe they were Maranna and Larn."

"I can sense magic," Dare reminded him. "I know you're lying."

"Could you have sensed it then? I hate to recall that time, Dare, because I know how hard it was for you, but were you even thinking of magic? Would you honestly have noticed?"

Dare refused to look at him. His head moved sideways in reluctant negation, then he slammed a fist down on a table with a crash. "Damn her! She stole my wife and son. I'm sorry she's dead. I would have liked to kill her myself."

"She didn't steal them," McAllister corrected reluctantly. He rose, tired though he was, and put a hand on Dare's shoulder. He felt the muscles bunch beneath his hand, but Dare didn't move away. "Maranna was ambitious, Dare. She wanted power. She was a gifted magician and once she had tasted what magic could be, she couldn't keep away from it. She wanted it all. She was probably the only magician in Lorrania who could realize what Serralla was up to, so before she could be killed, she bargained with Serralla. She offered Larn as a power source to the Lady in exchange for her life. Since her supposed death, she's been at Crag Castle adding her skills to Serralla's. Just now, once Chel freed Larn from Serralla's control, Maranna took her chance and challenged her. They fought to the death. Maranna is dead now. I'm sorry, but she was really dead for you six years ago. That hasn't changed."

As he spoke, Dare had begun to shake his head, and now he pulled free of McAllister's hand and turned away from him in disgust. "You're lying. Damn you, you're lying."

"Am I? Dare, you know me. You know I'd never hurt you deliberately. I wish I hadn't had to tell you this, but it's true. It looks like you'll get your son back. He's safe from Serralla forever. The little I saw of him, I liked him. A brave boy. I should have seen how much he resembles you. As for Maranna--I'm sorry she wasn't what you believed her. She just wasn't strong enough to resist the lure of all that power."

Dare strode to the window and stood staring unseeingly into the darkness. Finally he turned to McAllister, and his face looked dead. "Did she--speak of me?" he asked at last.

The Master hesitated, then he told the truth. "No. I'm sorry."

"All this time," Dare murmured in a bitter, defeated voice. "All this time I mourned her, and she was nothing. She didn't deserve it, she subjected my son to that bitch. I'll kill--" He fell silent as he realized there was no longer anyone to kill, no way to seek revenge, and he dropped into a chair, covering his face with his hands. "What's left?" he asked at length. "There's nothing--"

"There's Larn," McAllister comforted him. "Think, Dare. You lost Maranna a long time ago. You're getting your son back alive and well. He's had to face up to Serralla and his mother all these years, knowing his own mother wanted power more than she wanted him." McAllister's voice sharpened a little. "If you don't believe you have anything else to live for, think of the boy. He's going to need you. Don't run from him because your pride is hurt."

Dare jerked up and stared at the Master, his face twisting in anger and hurt. Lunging to his feet he drew back a fist to strike. The Master didn't defend himself, watching him mildly, too tired to resist, and at the last minute, Dare pulled back his hand. Turning away so the Master couldn't see the sudden brightness in his eyes, he said harshly, "Leave me."

McAllister nodded although Dare didn't see it. Wearily he turned and started for the door, only then realizing how drained he was. After two steps, the starch went out of his knees and he had to clutch a table to keep to his feet. Lowering himself into a chair with the last of his strength, he said, "I don't think I can get that far. I'm sorry."

That shocked Dare out of his bitter preoccupation, and he jumped forward to catch the Master as he fell, concern written across his face. McAllister felt himself being carried to the bed and let his eyes close.

  


 

*****

 

  


Max looked around uneasily. Just because Larn was free of Serralla didn't mean that they were free of Crag Castle, and he couldn't help but expect an armed troop to come charging down the corridor any minute to take them prisoners. He glanced at the kid, who was asking Chel a string of questions about his father and Arran and conditions at Abarant. Clearly this kid never forgot a thing, even after six years as Serralla's prisoner. To tell the truth, Max was kind of uneasy about Larn, who had unexpectedly healed him. Surreptitiously he flexed his arm again. There was no pain. That poor arm had endured a rough time since coming here. The mur-wolf bite had no sooner begun to heal before he got a sword cut. He wondered if his dad would believe him if he told him about it, once he was home.

"Do we go back through the labyrinth, Max?" Jennara asked, jogging his arm suddenly. She didn't look any more excited about it than Max was.

"You know the place," he returned, stowing his weapons in his pockets carefully. "Think you can get us out past the guards and all?"

She looked doubtful. Crag Castle was virtually impregnable. They might get to the doorway, but that neck of land would be well guarded, and there was still the town to pass through after that. "I don't know, Max," she finally said. "I don't like the thought of the labyrinth either, but it might be safer."

"Safer," he exploded. "You'd think anything would be safer than that." But he knew she could be right. At least it wasn't full of armed soldiers, although Serralla might have sent some to wait for them to come out again.

Suddenly Chel gasped and paled, and Larn cried, "Uncle Chel!" in alarm, then he went white too, and cried, "Oh!"

"What is it?" demanded Max. "What's wrong?"

Chel was silent a long time, concentrating, then he shook his head. "Serralla's dead," he announced, then he reached out and encircled the boy's thin shoulders with his arm. "And so is Maranna. I'm sorry, Larn."

"I'm sorry they're dead," Larn replied, "but she wasn't my mother any more. She hadn't been since I came here. I can hardly remember when she was." He grabbed Chel's arm and shook it. "Everything's confused now. We can walk right out the front door. I know where the lizards are stabled, and any animal in the place will obey me. Can we go to Abarant now? Can we, Uncle Chel?"

"Abarant?" Chel brightened. "Best idea anybody's had all day. What do you think. Max? Shall we go home?"

"What about me?" Jennara asked, suddenly diffident. "Max, I'm your liege woman. But you're loyal to the Protectorate. I'd go with you if I could."

"I have to go back to my own world, Jennara. You know that." He glanced at Chel. "She's helped us. Could she come back with us and maybe join the Guard?"

"That sounds like a good idea." Chel smiled at Jennara and she returned it tentatively.

"Come on, then," she said. "I'll show you the way out of here."

Passing through Crag Castle was one of the strangest experiences Max could remember. They encountered soldiers and guards from time to time and other people, nobles and servants and minor magicians, but no one paid them the slightest heed. It was as if they had become invisible. Casting an uneasy glance at Larn, Max couldn't help wondering if the boy had something to do with it, but it was probably due to Serralla's death. She had controlled life in this place, and now she controlled it no longer. For the first time in four years, everyone was free. No one challenged the obvious invaders or commented on the fact that they were accompanied by Serralla's pet boy or one of their own soldiers. Max felt very uncomfortable in the castle. It held an edge of darkness and evil that Max could almost taste.

At last they escaped the confines of the castle proper and Larn took over, guiding them to the stables. The stable keepers were huddled in a stall drinking and dicing, and ignored them as Larn steadied four lizards and saddled them deftly.

When at last they rode away from the city Max breathed a sigh of relief. Just maybe they would get home all right after all.

  


 

*****

 

  


When John Peter McAllister finally awoke, feeling refreshed and healthy and clear-headed, he thought for one moment that the whole thing had been a dream and that he was safe in his own world, or at least as safe as possible with Okasa trailing him as he did. Then the texture of the mattress registered, and he knew he wasn't sleeping on a Posturepedic in some motel room but on the rougher feather mattress in his room at Abarant Castle. He opened his eyes, curious to learn what had happened since Serralla's death.

It was mid-afternoon by the light, and that startled him. He must have slept the whole night through and into the afternoon. His confrontation with Serralla must really have drained him. Then there was a movement nearby and he turned curiously to find Raban half dozing in the chair beside his bed. The Protector's face was lined and tired, and some concern was keeping him from really falling asleep because, as McAllister watched, he shifted, his eyes opening, and he glanced at the doorway. If Lorranians wore watches, he would have checked that, too, and McAllister relieved his impatience by sitting up and announcing, "I'm awake."

"We were starting to worry about you," Raban replied. "I got back this morning, and so much has happened that we just let you sleep, but it's been so long we thought one of us should wake you. When I came in, you looked too peaceful to disturb, so I thought I'd give you another hour and catch a nap myself. How do you feel?"

"I feel fine," McAllister agreed, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to discover for the first time that he'd been dressed in one of the flowing nightshirts that men in the Protectorate seemed to favor. He hadn't awakened during the changing process, which indicated how tired he must have been. "I'm starving," he discovered. "I don't suppose it's mealtime?"

"We'll get you some food." Raban went to the door and conferred with his bodyguard, who waited there. A moment later he was back. "They'll send up something."

"You're back early," McAllister observed, getting up and going over to the washbasin on the table by the window to wash his face. He was startled to feel how much his beard had grown. "Or have I been asleep longer than I thought?"

"That's it. It's been almost two days since you were put to bed. We're expecting Chel and Max back late this afternoon. And Larn." He looked disbelieving. "Dare won't say much about that, just that Serralla had his son. Whatever the story is, it's hurting him. Can you tell me anything about it?"

He looked so desperately concerned for his friend that McAllister decided to tell the story. Raban would learn it from Larn and Chel if McAllister didn't tell him, and if he knew now, he might be able to help Dare before Larn returned. So he quickly related what he knew and a little of Dare's reaction to the news. "I wish I could have left it for you to tell him," McAllister said. "I've come closer to Dare than I had originally believed I could, but you're his best friend. I couldn't let it go, though. How is he taking it?"

"He's bitter," Raban replied. "I knew it was something to do with Maranna, although he wouldn't talk about it. He doesn't hold it against you--he's been very concerned for you, and he's been up here at least half a dozen times today to see if you're awake. He's pleased about Larn though, and I think eventually having Larn back will do the trick. Do you know how Larn is? Will Dare be disappointed?"

"I didn't see much of him," McAllister replied, "But I saw enough to realize he's not been corrupted by Serralla. He's got courage. I'd be proud of a son like that."

"Good. I'll go talk to Dare in a few minutes. But you probably have some questions. Things have been happening all over Lorrania."

"Since Serralla's death?" McAllister took out his razor and began to shave, casting an eye at Raban every few minutes.

"Yes. The word traveled quickly. We've all got magicians, and every magician in Lorrania felt her death. I hadn't realized until you told me that it was Maranna who had killed her and died herself, but we all knew it was some powerful magician, and I was afraid it was Chel until I got back and discovered that Dare had been in contact with him and knew he was safe. Chel reports that Larn is a healer," he added in an awestruck voice. "You won't know what that means, but it's wonderful news. We'd thought the healers' arts had died out, but Chel says Larn knows how to heal instinctively; he taught himself. He healed Max--don't worry, it was just a cut, nothing serious," he added hastily when McAllister jerked around to face him, almost giving himself a cut as bad as Max's with his razor. "Chel says Max was astonished."

McAllister relaxed, grinning a little. He could imagine Max's surprise. "That's good news," he replied. "About Larn, and Max, too. This healing? Is it only physical injuries that it works with?"

"You're thinking of Dare's feelings about Maranna?" Raban grinned. "If Larn's a healer, he's got empathic powers too. He'll be good for Dare."

"I'm glad of that."

"The other news is that Serralla's army is falling apart," Raban went on. "It seems that she met with various generals and battle strategists and addressed the troops and compelled them with her magic to believe they were right in joining her army. Now she's dead, the illusion is fading and everyone just wants to go home and pick up the pieces in their own lands. I don't think the individual armies are even doing much squabbling among themselves, although I'm sure we'll have a whole series of petty wars next spring when everyone has had a chance to see how much damage their lands suffered. We're luckier this far east. We've finally started to form a Council, and I think that will continue. If we can bring some of the other nations in, we'll have a chance to prevent something like Serralla again. I don't think Incoming will be held at Crag Castle any more."

"Maybe you'll change the location to Abarant."

Raban's face glowed with enthusiasm. "That sounds like a good idea. I'd like to establish a committee to mediate disputes. We don't always have to fight if there's a problem. Last year I tried to form a treaty with Vallon--that's south and east of here. It didn't work because we're accustomed to fighting rather than talking. I want to change all that."

"You've set yourself a big job," McAllister said. "Maybe with what Serralla tried to do, others will see the wisdom of your plans. I'd like to see it work." He set aside his razor and toweled away the rest of the lather. "Go for it," he encouraged, then caught himself. "I sound like Max."

"From what I've learned of Max, that isn't so bad, is it?"

"No. I've learned as much from Max as he's learned from me. That's the way it should be."

  


 

*****

 

  


It was three hours later just as the sun was setting that Chel, Max, Larn and a woman in Erly armor rode into the inner courtyard at Abarant. The cheers of the townspeople had alerted the castle residents that the wayfarers had come home. McAllister went down with Raban, Arran and Dare, who seemed to have forgiven him for telling him about Maranna, to await them, and McAllister watched them come riding through the thronging crowds to the main steps of the castle. Max looked fine, his red priest's cloak discarded in favor of a long black one that reminded McAllister of Darth Vader. Max looked excited and content, and he was waving back at all the pretty girls with great enthusiasm. When one of them ran out with a garland of flowers, Max reined in his lizard expertly and bent to give her a kiss, then rode on laughing.

Chel looked like he was in heaven. He waved to the crowds too, and seemed to have as much of an eye for the pretty girls as Max had, beckoning a few of them close enough for him to hug them. But his eyes roved ahead to find his brother, and when he saw Dare, with Raban standing close behind him and Arran on his other side, he relaxed and gave his attention once again to his fan club, who were cheering and clutching at his red cloak the way a mob of teenagers back home might follow their favorite rock star. It was plain that Chel loved every minute of it.

Larn stayed close to his uncle's side, his eyes straining ahead for a glimpse of his father. The noisy throng of celebrants didn't daunt him a bit, although he looked startled when a young girl no older than he was thrust a bouquet of flowers into his hands, then he smiled at her as if conferring a blessing and she gazed back rapturously. He turned back to his father immediately, and McAllister saw Dare push his way down the steps to meet him.

The girl in Erly armor stayed one pace behind Max and never took her eyes from him. McAllister started to grin, thinking Max had made a new conquest, then he sobered as he realized this was something different. Max glanced back at her every few minutes to make sure she was all right, but it wasn't as if he'd fallen in love again--he did that so often that McAllister was familiar with the symptoms. This was as if the girl was his responsibility here, all the more so because she wore enemy armor, and he was determined to see that no harm came to her.

By the time the mounted party reached the steps, Dare was down to the court level, Arran trailing him as if he had become Dare's protector rather than the other way around. McAllister began to move too, dividing his attention between Max, who had seen him and was waving wildly, and Dare, who had not taken his eyes from his son. Waving back at Max, McAllister started to move toward him as Larn, now close enough to Dare to touch, suddenly cried, "Father!" and flung himself from his saddle directly into Dare's arms. The Minister reeled under the impact but kept his feet, helped by Arran's hand on his back, then he gathered Larn into his arms and held him tight.

A moment later, McAllister was almost flattened by a similar onslaught. Max tossed the reins of his lizard to the girl and dismounted, then he lunged at the Master and hugged him hard. Max had always been a little awkward about physical displays of affection, but this time there was no awkwardness, as if Max was comfortable with the Master, himself, and everything around him. Drawing back finally to look his pupil in the eye, McAllister saw new maturity there and he knew without one word exchanged between them that it wasn't likely Max would be going through any more bar windows. He'd found something of himself on the trip, and from now on, their relationship would deepen still further, as they met more as equals. He was pleased, even as he tousled Max's hair affectionately and asked, "Did you stay out of trouble?"

"You bet," Max replied enthusiastically. "Well, mostly." He turned to the girl, who stepped forward immediately to join him. "This is Jennara. She's--" He stopped, uncertain of how to define their relationship.

"I'm his liege woman," Jennara explained, to the Master's astonishment. "I'd follow him into hell."

"I think you just did that," Max told her. "I want her to join the Guard here. She can't come home with me, and I couldn't leave her in Erly. They would have killed her even if they know now she was right to doubt the Lady. I wonder who I need to talk to." He went serious then. "You knew Dagan was dead?"

McAllister nodded and clasped Max comfortingly on the shoulder. "I was sorry to hear it. He was a truly good man."

"I'll tell you about it sometime," Max said. "It gave me a lot to think about. After we get home, we can talk it out."

"I'll look forward to it," McAllister replied.

He glanced over at Dare to see how the First Minister was managing and was relieved to see that most of the bitterness had left his face. Larn was rattling on enthusiastically as if he had no doubt that his father would hang on his every word, and consequently, Dare did.

"'n then Uncle Chel warded me," he was saying. "So that _she_ couldn't get to me, and then he did more magic than he ever did before; he went in and found where she stored her power and he blocked it off so she couldn't get to me. And, you know, Father, I think if he hadn't done that, not even the wards would've held when she fought--uh--fought the other one. Because when she did, I could feel her, sort of, trying to get back in, and I know she could've got past wards because she was just so desperate. So Uncle Chel saved my life. I think he's great. You won't be mad if I become a magician, will you, Father? I can do some healing already, and Uncle Chel says I'll just keep on getting better at it. But only if it's all right with you?" He tilted his head to one side and regarded his father earnestly.

Dare stared at him helplessly as if he were about to burst into tears. Instead, he spun around and came face to face with his brother. Chel waited, watching him, a smile beginning, then Dare grasped his arms and pulled him into a hard embrace. "Thank you, brother mine," he managed to say, biting off the words quickly so that no one would notice he was crying.

Chel cast a reassuring look at his nephew as he wrapped his arms around his brother. "For you? Any time," he said with forced lightness, and the roar of the crowd drowned out anything else he might have said.

  


 

*****

 

  


"You know what I was thinking as we came back here?" Max Keller asked the Master two days later. There had been celebrations and banquets and speeches until Max had begun to hate the sight of a crowd, but those days were past. As they had been promised back in the Cavern Bar, Max and the Master were on their way home again, riding horseback, in the company of a Guard troop and Prince Arran. Max had become accustomed to lizards and it still felt funny to be riding a beast with only four legs. He glanced over at Jennara, who rode in the troop, now clad in Protectorate armor, and grinned at her, relieved that she had been accepted here, because no matter how much he might have wanted to, he couldn't take an alien warrior home with him.

"What were you thinking?" McAllister asked absently. He was watching Arran and probably reminiscing about time spent with the Prince and Dare. The Minister had dropped his brooding look when he parted with the Master and had embraced him like a brother, to McAllister's obvious delight.

"Well, you know," Max replied. "About deciding to stay here."

McAllister stiffened slightly although his face didn't change, and Max, who was a little more perceptive than he had been before they came to Lorrania, realized why. McAllister couldn't stay here; he had to find his daughter Teri. If Max chose to stay, it would mean he would lose Max with no guarantee of finding his daughter to fill the sudden, unexpected void in his life. "It's an idea," McAllister said evenly. "What did you decide?"

"Well, living here wouldn't be so bad," Max replied thoughtfully. The Master would hear him out and would accept whatever he decided, but he couldn't really leave McAllister in suspense any longer, so he added quickly, "I can't, of course, but it was still worth thinking about."

"Why can't you?" McAllister asked. "Arran and Dare said we could go home when this was all over, but they didn't say we had to go. I like it here, too, especially now that there's the hope of peace for these people. It would be a fine thing to help them reorganize the way Raban plans to."

"Yeah, I know," Max replied, shifting in the saddle. "And it's tempting. There are a lot of reasons to want to stay." He glanced over at Jennara, who was chattering away to one of the Guard soldiers, probably comparing notes about different methods of killing.

"Jennara being one of them," McAllister realized. "I like that girl, Max. She's certainly different from any of your usual girlfriends. Are you in love with her?"

"With Jennara?" Max glanced at her again then turned to meet the Master's eyes. "Not the way you mean it. I like her a lot; she's a friend. We've been through danger together, and that makes a kind of bond, you know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean," the Master conceded. "I feel the same about Arran and Dare. I'm going to miss them."

"How's Dare doing?" Max asked. When he had heard about all that had happened to Dare, he wasn't sure how the First Minister would react, and it seemed that the Master had worried about him too, but the arrival of Larn had been a turning point in the dark man's life. He had begun to open up a little, first to his son, then to his friend the Protector, who had always been there for him, and to Chel, and finally the Master himself. Max was glad about Chel. He had discovered that Chel adored his brother and had been worried sick over him these past six years, but the magician had been unable to get through to him except intermittently in times of crisis. Now the two of them were recapturing the friendship they had known in the days before Maranna had entered Dare's life and proceeded to worm herself into his affections because he was close to the Protector. Even then Maranna had had designs on being a court magician.

"Dare is doing better than I'd let myself hope," McAllister answered. "He and I grew closer while you were gone, but I was afraid finding out about his wife would be a real setback. Now it comes out that a part of him had always doubted, but he had shut his doubts away. He's always been a suspicious man, reluctant to trust people, and Maranna got to him in spite of himself. Once he got over the shock of it, he started to realize he'd always known. But he was lucky. He has his son back. I like that boy. I can't believe he lasted so long with Serralla, although she cared about him."

"Serralla? Cared for someone? I don't believe it."

"Don't you? She loved that boy. She didn't let corruption touch him. She convinced herself that she was planning to turn him to the dark when he grew up, so she wouldn't have to admit her feelings, but she loved him. And in the end, she cared enough to save my life."

"Your _life_?" Max echoed, stunned. "But--"

"I watched her fight with Maranna," McAllister related. "I had run out of energy and I don't know if I had the strength to pull out. If I'd stayed much longer, they would have taken me with them into death. The last thing Serralla did was to help me from the link--and call me friend."

"You _liked_ her," Max accused him, not understanding.

"I know you don't understand that, Max. But sometimes, when two people, two enemies, contend with each other, they draw close together. A great fighter can love his enemies. And if not that, at least respect them. What about Brin? Did you respect him?"

Max thought about it. "Yeah, in a way," he realized, surprised. "And he respected me. I'm sorry I had to kill him, even though I couldn't have done anything else."

"Good, Max. You're learning. Now take that a little further and you'll see why I haven't killed Okasa."

Max frowned. He'd never been able to understand that, no matter how much the Master had tried to explain it to him, but suddenly it came to him like a revelation, and as with all revelations, it was very simple when he finally worked it out. "You don't _have_ to kill him," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "And if you keep at it long enough, maybe someday he'll realize he doesn't have to kill you."

"That's right, Max. Maybe there's hope for you yet." He smiled broadly and asked, "So why did you decide to go home?"

"Two reasons," Max responded promptly, glad that the Master hadn't lavished him with praise for his realization. He was more comfortable with this. "The first one's my dad. I'm his only relative now, since Mom and Jimmy got killed. I ran out on him once, but that was different. At least we were in the same world and we both knew we'd be back in touch one day. If I stay here, he'll never know what happened to me--and if you went back and told him, he'd think you'd lost it and probably call for the men in the white coats to haul you off to a padded room."

"Probably. What's your other reason, Max?"

"Well, you haven't found Teri yet," Max replied reasonably. "You won't give that up, and I couldn't let you do it alone. We're a team, remember? But you know, I've been thinking."

"What, twice in one day?" But the Master's smile warmed his whole face.

"Go ahead, give me a bad time," Max complained without rancor. "I was thinking maybe we could come back someday. I wonder how this gateway works."

"We'll have to ask," McAllister agreed, and later, when they rode up the side of the hill beside the standing stones, Arran came and rode beside them, and McAllister asked him about the gateway.

"It's always there," Arran replied. "At least in our world it is. In your world, it moves around. It's the Cavern now, or it was when you came through. Maybe when you go back, you'll find yourselves in a bookstore or a bathhouse, or even a government building. Ranna is gatekeeper this year--remember the woman who was there that night? The gatekeepers are all magicians who have sworn neutrality for the term of their service. They can't favor Techta over Yere, for instance, or Vallon over the Protectorate. They can't let anyone pass with evil designs. But even Serralla could send people through as long as she didn't bring back restricted items or give away our existence or interfere with anything in your world. Anyone can go and study, but we can't let just anyone know about us. You two were different because of the prophecy, and there have been others from your world who have passed back and forth. Poets and dreamers believe most readily. And science fiction fans." The latter term sounded odd upon his tongue, and Max realized he had spoken it in English. Soon he'd be speaking English again himself. He wondered if he would forget how to speak Lorranian when he went home.

"So if we wanted to visit you later, it would depend on whether we could find the gateway again?" McAllister asked.

"That's it. We'd like to have you back--time passes at the same rate in both worlds, so that won't be a problem. Since you'll have been through the gateway twice, you'll feel an affinity with it. But it's a big country of yours--the gate drifts around North America since that's the general equivalent of Lorrania in your world. But if you ever see it again, you'll know. You might be walking down a busy street and see a shop you've never seen before and you'll know you've found the gateway. It doesn't take a magician to open it, just someone who knows it's there."

"I hope we can find it again," Max replied.

When the reached the clearing at the top of the hill, Max and the Master dismounted, as did Arran and Jennara. Max's liege woman handed him Henry, whom she'd been carrying for him on the ride here, and he put his hamster back safely in his pocket. "Hey, listen, Jennara, you take it easy now, and don't go getting into any wars you can't get out of."

"As my liege commands," she replied, then she leaned forward, put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him. Max hugged her.

Suddenly Vesper was there and she hugged him too, winning a sour look from Jennara, but the Erly woman relented and stood with Vesper as Max and the Master followed Arran toward the Sacred Grove. Max hung back, his chin on his shoulder, wanting a final look at Jennara. She lifted a hand to him, then she stood there proudly, her head held high, letting him see her that way so he would remember her being brave.

"How do we get back?" asked Max, running to catch up with Arran and the Master.

"You'll see." Arran stopped and turned to face McAllister. "Well, Master, I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too." When Arran would have offered his hand, McAllister brushed it aside and embraced the Prince in farewell. "You remember what we talked about," he reminded him. "I'll expect you to look after Dare for me."

"I think Dare can fight his own battles now," Arran replied. Then he grinned. "But I know what you mean. Thanks to you we're friends again. I don't want to jeopardize that." He turned to Max and stuck out his hand for Max to shake. "Next time you come, I'll take you hunting, Max. I want to see you get another mur-wolf."

"Uh, is it too late to decide not to come?" Max asked, grinning. "Yeah, I'll look forward to it. Next time, I'll bring more than a knife."

"I'll be waiting." He turned then and lifted his hand in a gesture much like Chel's, although he had no magic, and to Max's astonishment, a window appeared before his eyes. It wasn't broken.

"Well, what did you expect?" Arran demanded when Max remarked on it. "Did you think we'd leave it broken all this time?"

He reached forward and propped the window open, poked his head inside, and, discovering that the coast was clear, he stood back to let Max scramble through.

"How about this," Max remarked to the Master. "I'm going _into_ a bar through the window. This has got to be a first."

The Master followed him and together they turned to look back at Arran and the others. For a moment, they could see them standing there. Jennara lifted a hand again quickly. Then a dusty parking lot superimposed itself over them and they were gone.

Max blinked, finding himself unexpectedly close to tears. He lifted his eyes to McAllister's and realized that the Master was in much the same condition. For a long time they stood there, eyes locked together, then McAllister winked. "Come on, Max," he said quickly. "Let's grab a sandwich. We've got twenty miles to make before dark."

"You're on," Max replied enthusiastically, and they turned to give their orders to Ranna.

 


End file.
